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from-memphis-with-love · 2 months

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Gambling on Your Love - An Elvis Presley Fanfiction

Summary: Mid-'60s Elvis is stuck in a dead end film career that he hates. Until he meets one Francesca Ferrara, a triple threat from Brooklyn, NY on a meteoric rise whose talent rivals his own. The Colonel is determined to put a stop to their hot and heavy romance at any cost, fearing it may hurt his client's career. But Elvis has other plans.

Word count: ~12,000 Warnings: alcohol, cigarette, and pill usage; sexual content and innuendos; mental health and turmoil. Elvis is not a happy camper as we start this story.

The limousine was oppressive with heat. Boozy breath clung in the air like miasma. City lights smeared like paints along the fogging glass. Glittering nails and hairsprayed blonde curls skewed his already hazy vision and he just barely put out his cigarette in the ashtray without scalding Daisy’s—or was it Cindy’s?—sequin dress.

“Hey! Watch it,” she drunkenly giggled in his face, poking him in the chest with one bony index. She looked older, harsher now in the neon lights. Tap tap tap. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

He didn’t know what he said in response, but it didn’t matter. She was still happy just to be in a limousine, leaving a party with Elvis Presley. Something she keenly shared with him that she couldn’t wait to tell her friends all about.

Stumbling into his hotel room, ceiling-to-floor mirrors reflecting him back, he didn’t remember the elevator trip up. He heard once that if nothing new happens on a routine route, your brain doesn’t bother to write it down. Just doesn’t think you need to use that extra space for something rudimentary.

Sitting down on a different couch, with a different girl, in a different one of his suites, didn’t constitute much change. The pills he’d imbibed suppressed his lust and he felt himself just going through the motions with her. With himself.

The silence was sharp. Always ringing in his ear. It’s why he liked keeping the party going—he didn’t have to listen to it. She was asleep in the bed, and he wasn’t sure if he was, too, when he stumbled out and into the too empty, echoing living room. The uncomfortable leather couch squeaked when he sat down, cold and sticky. The television was on a late-night variety show. It was an encore for an hours-prior live performance. He held the remote poised at the set, blinking tiredly at the political jab Johnny Carson made, the crowd laughing even when he didn’t say anything funny. He introduced their next guest and Elvis clicked away.

But before he switched to Nightlife, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and a sparkling high cut dress. Elvis clicked back. Trapezing onto stage, jovial and collected, was a songstress he didn’t recognize, though lately he hadn’t been busy with keeping up with anyone else but himself. He didn’t know anyone on set, hadn’t even heard of the director before—it was just another film in a long line of commercially successful mediocrity. Sitting, he watched her as she glowed with something he felt fading away, spilling out of his seams. He leaned closer towards the television, and Johnny introduced her to an anticipating audience.

Her name was Francesca Ferrara. What was that, Italian? Either way, it rolled pleasantly off his tongue. He repeated it out loud, watching as she performed. Her voice was like velvet and when she danced, the notes didn’t even quiver. She retained perfect pitch while going heel-toe, shimmying and sliding, dipping her hips in her glittering gown. He was enthralled, gazing from so far away yet feeling like she was right before him, and he was an awestruck member of the audience.

Grabbing a pill he left close at hand for pangs of severe loneliness, he drank it down with a swig of water, wiping his mouth and saying goodbye with the crowd as everyone waved at lovely Frannie, leaving the stage and leaving him longing for someone he’d probably never meet. Probably wouldn’t even remember.

Waking up on the couch hours later, he had to go through the awkward peel-away of scooting his latest girl out with a fistful of cab fare. “Thanks for the great night,” he clipped, holding the door like a baseball bat, ready to swing. “Of course! I had suuuch a good time with you, I put my number on your fridge for when you’re lonely, big guy.” She wasn’t bothered by his briskness and ambled away without argument, leaving him by himself. A routine start to his days.

Three months later, he saw Frannie again. But this time he was clear-headed, clearer than he’d been in years. And he did remember.

“Can’t y’all be quiet for five minutes? Goddamn pack of cacklin’ hens!” Elvis scolded the rowdy group of partygoers behind him. Their raucous cheers and shouts drowned out any hope of silence. He couldn’t entirely blame them for having fun without him, though, as his attention was elsewhere.

"Is anyone else seeing her?!" he muttered to himself as he absentmindedly jiggled his fingers. The crowd hushed ever so slightly, allowing him to catch fragments of the sit-down interview taking place on the television screen. There she was again, that Ferrara girl. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her voice reached out to him like a siren's call, its rhythm hypnotic. Penetrating his very being.

On set, she sunk back into the big red couch, legs crossed demurely in a miniskirt, listening intently as Mike Douglas poked and prodded with his innuendos. Petite, just like Elvis liked ‘em. Fishnet stockings on supple thighs evoked just the right amount of daring playfulness. Then, with suggestive abandon, she threw her head back into the most beautiful laugh Elvis had ever heard. Seeing the soft flesh of her graceful neck made him tingle in a deep, forgotten place inside. She was sensual without even trying. Even better, she seemed completely unaware of her effect on the men around her. The cameraman, for one, must have been completely smitten for the way he lingered on her face. "So, this is the female version of me everyone's been talking about," Elvis mused, a mix of astonishment and delight coloring his voice. "Well, I'll be damned."

Her natural charisma was palpable. Her lips, just like his, bent into an impishly crooked smile that could bring members of the opposite sex to their knees. As she joked with Douglas, it became increasingly apparent why people drew comparisons between them. They both radiated an effortless sensuality that seemed to leap from the screen. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but disagree with the comparison as she palmed the microphone for an impromptu song—he thought she was even better, a force that surpassed his own artistry.

Her voice. It was soulful, raspy, and powerful, yet also warm and velvety. Effortless, even. From the lower notes that were rich, heavy, and dark to the higher ones that rang clear as a bell, she had an impressive range. Elvis surmised that she easily spanned three octaves and a major sixth, far surpassing his own two and a third. The way she easily hit an E6, a note that seemed out of reach for many singers, left him both jealous and utterly fascinated. Her talent and beauty made him question his own abilities, yet his ego pushed him to pursue her. To consume her. Elvis’ breath hitched in his throat and his hands dropped idly to his sides. Accustomed to being the center of attention, he found the tables turning, himself transfixed and unable to tear his gaze away. He silently vowed to meet this Frannie at any cost.

He had never experienced love at first sight before, but this was as close as it gets.

As she continued to sing, her voice dripped raw with passion. Elvis didn’t know how long he’d been watching, but by the time Frannie entered the chorus for the second time, it seemed as if every man in the room had somehow crowded around the television set. Suddenly, the once boisterous party fell into deafening silence.

"Damn, EP, who is that?" Red West, one of the men in the room, practically gaped at the screen, his jaw hanging open. Whoever it was on the stage, he thought she was phenomenal.

"That," Elvis responded with a confident grin, "is going to be my next co-star."

The next day, Colonel Parker jumped down his throat about late nights and partying, always quick to remind Elvis just who tirelessly scouted for him, trying to get him better and better roles. He went from quipping about Elvis’s pale skin and sunken eyes some mornings to blatantly questioning Elvis’s apparent lack of control.

But Elvis could stop whenever he wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

The movie premiere went without a hitch. Everyone at the showing had rave reviews about “Kissin’ Cousins,” but almost everyone in attendance had been family or friends. It’d been a gauzy shield, a curtain keeping reality just out of sight for when the movie would release in theaters just two weeks later.

Even the “good” reviews were hard for him to grit through.

“Good, harmless fun. Pandering, unpretentious, dim-witted fun.”

The bad reviews just cut.

“The songs weren’t memorable, and the dialogue was sitcom levels of easily digestible canned slop for the masses. You’re better off glancing at the poster and thinking up your own plot to stimulate your brain more than this “film” will.”

“Bad. Bad. Bad. Do I need to say anything with depth for a film lacking any? Save your money.”

The critics were tearing him a new one, but he was more successful than ever, making more money than he’d thought possible in a lifetime. Yet there was something lacking. In the women and the cars, the pick-up games, and the palling around with his stunted entourage. His sleepless nights were plagued with visions of a haunting beauty. It kept him ambitious, fanning the dying flame until he was spurred to reach for the phone.

Over the past few weeks, Elvis had sent around on set that he needed to get in touch with Francesca Ferrara’s manager. Someone had to know someone that knew someone. It just took asking the right person, and schmoozing on set with the makeup girls was a pleasant cost to pay as any.

Eventually it did get back to the right person. Her agent was a man named Dominick Archer, and he was notoriously scrupulous with his clients, only taking on the best actors, singers, and scripts. Elvis learned Francesca didn’t just sing here and there, she was lighting up the charts, skyrocketing to the top. Just the other day, he heard her on the radio. It felt like more than a coincidence.

He had to call Dominick. Again. He’d left a message on the receiver, laying it all out in a quick barrage, “Hey, uh, yeah. It’s Elvis Presley. Look, I saw her— Frannie—I saw her piece on Johnny Carson. She was a fireball, Mr. Archer. I need to work with someone like that. I need to work with her. Call me.”

It’d been three whole days since he left that message and every afternoon he scrambled to the phone, checking to see if his call had been returned. Nothing. But he wasn’t perturbed. He dialed the number again. It rang four, eight times—“What? Speak quick.” There was a rustling sound, like the phone was being held between a face and shoulder.

“It’s Elvis. Presley, sir.”

“Oh yeah. Think I heard of you,” Dominick laughed in that sort of nonplussed way that New Yorkers who have seen it all do. “What do you want?”

Elvis blinked. What did he want? “I left you a message. I think a movie with me and Francesca Ferrara would make box office history.”

Silence. Elvis heard Dominick sniff. Discomforted, he continued, “Do you want to work together?”

“Listen, my going rate for outside agency actors is 60/40. I land us a solid script, a good director, all that jazz. And Francesca is listed as the headliner.”

Bigger cut and her name was supposed to be listed before his? Colonel Parker wouldn’t hear of it. But he could be convinced, maybe. If the profit was tempting enough. Elvis would worry about that later. Right now, securing a spot with Frannie was all that compelled him. He had to get this gig.

So, he answered briskly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dominick asked back with a smile in his voice. “Well, then we can start talking business. Get your agent to call me.” And that was it. The call dropped and Elvis heard only a dial tone droning in his ear. It echoed hope.

Now to tell the Colonel.

Elvis was not a man who dreaded much, but he braced himself for this conversation. He was not a pacifist but if in the right circles, could be mistaken for one. Normally, he disliked confrontation and always preferred to take the path with least resistance. And he’d been in the same boat with Colonel Parker for years; abandoning ship now seemed unfeasible if not outright impossible.

He didn’t want to waste time with a phone call; he knew Parker would just hang up on him the moment he received any pushback. So, he made his way downtown to his manager’s temporary office, where Parker’s sandal-clad feet were kicked up on his mahogany desk and a cigar hung precariously from his thin lips, the whole office reeking of tobacco and coffee while he shot the shit with one of his terrified assistants. Smoke raced out the door when Elvis swung it open, catching Parker off guard.

“My boy! No knock, no call? What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be on set right now?” He put the phone back on the receiver, only slightly annoyed.

Elvis leveled him with a stare. “Because I had some errands to do. Besides, it’s reshoots with Barbara today, they don’t need me. Look, I…” He rubbed his palms, remaining standing as he placed them flat on Parker’s desk and leaned across. “There’s a girl. A girl, Admiral. You’ve got to see her, she's got the voice of an angel. Francesca Ferrara.” God, he liked saying that name. Maybe it should get first billing.

“Don’t tell me she’s carrying your baby, Presley.”

“No, no. I didn’t get anyone pregnant. I haven’t even met her yet. I saw her on the television. Heard her on the radio! She’s got somethin’, I promise you.”

The Colonel’s chair creaked as he readjusted, stamping out his expensive cigar. His fingers steepled and he asked in a gravely, wet voice, “And I assume you’re going somewhere with this?”

“I want—no. I need to work with that woman.”

Shrugging, Parker retorted, “Get her agent on the phone. Who is he? Not that needle-dick bastard Jenkins, is he?”

“I already talked to him.”

“You talked to him already? When? Why? I—” He shook his head, holding up his meaty, red palms. “Whaddya think you’re paying me for, kid? You let me do all the talking. So. What’d he say?”

Elvis swished the statement, diluting it. “He wants her to get top billing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And… a 60/40 split.”

“Sixty isn’t enough, you deserve seventy. I haven’t even heard of this broad. Forty percent, my ass.”

“Sir, she would get the sixty.”

Parker rubbed his mouth and jabbed a finger at him. “What are you playing at? You think this is funny? No way in hell.” He started laughing humorlessly, shaking his head. “Sixty percent. You must have fallen and bumped your head, Presley. Now get out of my office.” He flicked his hand but Elvis didn’t budge.

The older man simmered, quietly, wondering with a glare why Elvis hadn’t made himself scarce yet.

“It ain’t right, never letting me pick and choose what I wanna do. You know I’m the star here, right?” He regretted the words before they left his mouth. The delivery, not their meaning. That part he meant through and through.

“So why do you think I’d let you throw away your cut? You really want to make 40 percent and split that 50/50 with me? What kind of bank do you expect to make from that? Think, Presley! Now quit wasting my time and let me get back to looking out for you. I’ve got some calls to make, so scram.”

He refused. If there was ever a time to take a stand, it was now. He was so tired of letting Parker take damn near full control of his life. The finances, the social guidelines, the shitty movies. All of it.

“I said scram! If you don’t get lost, so help me. You know I don’t like gettin’ pissed off, kid. Don’t push me.”

Elvis didn’t move. Instead, he firmly reiterated, “I think it could be a great opportunity.”

The Colonel flew up from his chair. He was prone to being a jackass, but Elvis had rarely seen him so angry. But then again, he rarely defied his manager, having always seen him as someone who, despite his flaws, nearly always got the job done. Bread in the bank, so to speak. Colonel Parker made damn sure it was always in excess, even if it meant taking a generous cut of his star’s earnings. That part, Elvis didn’t mind. It was just money, after all, and he could always make more. What Elvis had begun to resent was the vice grip control Colonel had on him. With an iron fist, he wielded him like a weapon, cleaving his way through Hollywood one mediocre movie at a time. It was him who spearheaded his silver screen career, scheduled his engagements, managed his merchandising contracts. But at the cost of rigid ruling.

Elvis was not allowed to announce he was dating anyone for the “time being,” that being however long his manager saw fit. He couldn’t deposit checks directly into his bank; Parker handled all the finances down to the penny. Nobody important could get to Elvis without going through Parker first–not other producers, managers, or even would-be friends. Everyone had to be vetted by the Colonel, who wasn’t above isolating Elvis when he felt someone with influence was getting too close. The contracts Elvis would find himself pledged to were oftentimes suffocating with how long he would be tied to one studio, making critically-panned but commercially successful slop for the masses. He couldn’t escape the exhausting treadmill of quickie films, and he knew that they were there solely to make money. Funds that the studios would use to finance the more important, artistic projects with serious actors. Ones that weren’t Elvis.

There was a marked disdain for any growth in artistic expression or flexibility. He was proud of his filmography regardless, but there were times he’d felt outclassed at parties. Where it was clear nepotism was the unspoken theme and, ill trained and easily tongue-tied, Elvis would get sweetly nudged aside with smiles by those who deemed themselves more sophisticated than him. Those moments were rare but gutting. It hollowed him out and he didn’t like what he saw. A few years into his movie career, he’d developed painful ulcers that still kept him up at night, and he suffered from debilitating migraines during the day.

“You need to listen to me and listen good, boy.” Boy. Elvis hated when Parker called him that. “You keep bucking up to me like you run the show and I might have to make a stir about your favorite hobbies. I’m sure the papers would love to know what you get up to in your free time, how you spend all that money you earn. In detail.” The insinuation left little to the imagination and Elvis felt threatened to cave, but knew that if he backed down now, things would never improve.

“If I can convince them to bill me first. Would you consider it?”

Parker was already shaking his head, loudly saying, “No, no. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

“We can negotiate for a fairer split. I’ll make this a one-time deal if it all goes to hell. But if this works, you’ve got to admit that to me and let me pursue it. I barely ask you for anything, Colonel. When’s the last time I asked you a favor that you can remember?” At his lengthy silence, Elvis said, “Once you see her, you’ll change your tune, I know you will.”

The Colonel was still boiling, his round ruddy face tight around the relit cigar, taking a drink of iceless, room temperature water, clear as crystal in a highball glass. “One. You get one chance at picking your own script. We’ll see how it goes. Good parents let their children learn from their mistakes, right?”

Elvis winced. He already had a father, and he didn’t need more scolding. If he was determined before, he was now dead set on seeing this through given that Parker threatened an exposé. But if he could just win something–just this once–it’d put him over the moon. When he left his manager’s office that day, he called Dominick back himself and told him that things were tentatively going well and that they’d stay in touch, but things might have to be worked out a bit more, something the other man wasn’t too thrilled to hear, telling him briefly, “I’ll let you know when something comes up.”

For weeks nothing at all came up. Then the weeks bled into two long months and the seed of doubt bloomed wild. He began to wonder if he’d ever get to be in a movie with Francesca. But he wouldn’t let the dread creep further. He waited patiently, working diligently at his current contractual obligations, not because he was crazy about the film, but because he knew he needed to practice so that he could give the next project his all. He just had a good feeling about this. Something in his gut told him that it would all work out.

Colonel Parker had him slotted for another slop fest of a movie. He didn’t agree to it, but that didn’t matter. Pushing it on him was just par for the course and he deflected, saying he wanted to take a break and relax. But that was seen through almost immediately.

“You’ll get a vacation when I do.”

And the Colonel didn’t plan on one anytime soon with as many movies he had lined up for Elvis. They had started to lose their shine in his eyes and while they were more commercially successful than ever, he’d never felt more out of touch. Just going through the motions.

He saw her face on a billboard one morning in Chicago while stepping out of the bus, the sun illuminating her like some angel. Performing live, but the dates had already passed. He’d missed her by 6 hours. They might have even been in the city at the same time. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How would he introduce himself? What would she say when meeting Elvis Presley and learning he was smitten with her? Surely it wouldn’t be a hot pursuit, he just needed to be near enough to her. He could perhaps convince her to feel what he felt too. Or maybe it was all a silly fantasy, keeping him shaking on stage for the thousands in attendance at the premiere.

Tonight, he’d almost been assaulted by an over-excited herd of young fans grouping too close to the flimsy perimeter fence, sending it toppling and knocking into his knees. He wasn’t injured but seeing people literally willing to hurt themselves to get a chance to grab at his coat sleeve or tug at his pants leg was enough to disturb him for the rest of the night. He didn’t talk for a while, just sitting and staring in the silence of his suite, the bus stationary for the next 4 hours. He couldn’t sleep when it was moving, it just tossed his stomach to bits.

He clicked on the radio, swapping between stations to maybe catch a glimpse of her, but there was nothing. Just brassy tunes to lull him to sleep.

When he and his entourage checked into a hotel halfway to Memphis, he didn’t bother glancing at the machine, not ready for another dollop of displeasure after his latest film was panned by critics again. He thought it wouldn’t dagger as hard this time, but it never got less twisting. It was impossible to not take it personally.

“Do you want to see someone simultaneously over-act and under-perform in the same film? Then Fun in Acapulco is the watch for you.”

What was he doing so wrong that he couldn’t see? He wanted what he idolized in other stars, the natural ability to convincingly portray a role. Perfect, practiced, performances with organic delivery. It was only when he went back and rewatched these movies himself did he see his flaws. The framing, the diction, the lostness in his expressions. He just wasn’t grounded enough. And of course, the material itself was complete shit.

“You can’t relate to any of Presley’s latest characters because there simply is no relatability. This isn’t Mike, it’s so clearly Elvis Presley through the weakly played facade. This isn’t acting. It’s lying.”

He needed to stop reading into the criticism. More money meant more money. There was value to it all, merit in his every success, even if they lacked any spiritual nourishment. Even though he felt hollow at the end of nearly every day.

Sitting in front of the television, too tired to call a girl over, too jaded to invite his friends around, he flicked on the set and slouched with a glass of water and a rattling bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, red flashed intermittently. On the phone stand, the machine blinked, gently prying for his attention. He was walking without thought, hands outstretched, mouth dry.

Elvis hit play, listening to a half second of rustling. A wet lip smack and a cigarette-accented inhale. Then, Dominic Archer’s tinny voice clicked through the receiver, “Might have a bit for you, kid. Jake Turner, a talented headliner at a famous casino is tired of the routine, starts a hot romantic encounter with the mysterious new card dealer on the run from her past. You and Frannie. Previous deal stands, Presley. Give me a call. Your manager is a fucking asshole.”

He played it again. Listening intently to every word. This was textbook glitz and glam that Colonel Parker frothed over, but just enough meat for Elvis to really sink his teeth into the role. There was no way this wasn’t going to be a hit. Two stars burning bright on screen. It was too easy to pitch. He just had to have patience and persistence. He’d beat Parker down with enough persuading. He wasn’t so spiteful to say no to possibly the biggest check of his life, was he?

Fuming. The Colonel was quiet; always at his angriest. He looked over his tightly intertwined hands at Elvis. The young star laid it all out once more, repeating in firm earnest that this was the right move for his career.

“How’s this any different from the other movies you have me in, Colonel?”

“What’s different is that she’s asking for a bigger cut and to be the headliner. How do you think that’s going to make you look?”

“No one cares. I couldn’t tell you who the headliners for the last twenty movies I’ve seen were! You know this is a golden opportunity. You gotta see the bigger picture here!”

The lack of a response left Elvis unnerved. Parker was either thinking or stewing, about to blow his top.

But he surprised Elvis when he said slowly, bluntly, “60/50. That’s my takeaway cut from whatever you receive, as your manager. For going out on a limb for you.”

“Done.” No hesitation. Something that made a nerve in Parker’s jaw twitch. But Elvis didn’t give a shit if Parker wanted a king’s share of the money. He could have it. As long as he got a chance to finally shine in a decent role, with a decent director, with a co-star that actually had some chops!

“Let this be a lesson when this fails. And I promise you, it will fail.” The words were harsh and calculated, delivered with carelessness as Colonel Parker shrugged, waving him out. Elvis looked at him, stunned at the lack of motivation. No encouragement. Nothing. He shouldn’t expect it, but there was something overwhelmingly frustrating about silently sharing his hard-won earnings with someone like him. He wanted a change but didn’t know where else to start.

Taking himself more seriously was the first step. And he raced to return Dominick’s offer with a resounding “Yes, sir! Let me start by apologizing to you on my manager’s behalf—”

“No need. We start filming in May.”

May. The month couldn’t come fast enough. He was still a few weeks away, flirting with cold blue spring mornings and balmy evenings. He needed to move back to Las Vegas for filming. He liked the house enough, but it was out in the eerie quiet desert, and he could always see eyes bobbing like ghosts out on the pitch-black horizon. It was spooky being there, so he often never went. Parker came too, insisting that phoning it in wasn’t an option, even if he was clearly sour grapes about the entire trip there, about booking an apartment long term, about coming to the early filming every day (and every other weekend).

“A female director. A female lead. You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Parker scoffed.

Cassandra Morgan was an innovative filmmaker with a unique approach, renowned for passionately exploring complex characters. Elvis watched one of her movies after he settled in while housekeeping cleared the cobwebs. There were some huge spiders always waiting for eviction when he left his Vegas home for long stretches. But the pool was glittering and the pantry was restocked. There was life in the house again and he found himself walking around, wondering how Frannie would like everything. Most men didn’t care to decorate their spaces with fine art and designer furniture. He could see her dazzled by the globe glass chandelier painting the sunken marble living room with dappled prisms. Or her lounging by the infinity pool and gazing out onto the native garden.

Elvis barely slept that night. So nervous was he that he actually downed some whiskey, suddenly aware of the smell of alcohol leaking from his pores, or the mauve pitting of his eyes when slumber escaped him. He wanted to be at his brightest for this. He felt like an unpaid intern at some big wig exec’s office, knees turned in and gut doing flips.

The studio was a sun scorched walk across bleached white concrete, but he made it as far as two steps past the gate when a cart rolled up to collect him, puttering him across the long stretch. He didn’t see his manager amongst the crew. His make-up artists were sweet gals, older than he expected, enthusiastic to be here. Delia and Margo. On set, there was a dip in professionalism as everyone swarmed him, happily introducing themselves.

His neck craned and his eyes flitted about the room, constantly searching for her. What would she be wearing? What would her face look like when she finally met him? What perfume would she smell like? “Get a hold of yourself, Presley,” he muttered to himself.

Back stage, he got powdered up for rehearsals, having breezed through the script on the long plane ride to Vegas. It was his seventeenth read-through from start to finish, mesmerized by the similarity between himself and the character he was supposed to play. Jake was also bored of his routine performances and craved something meaningful, something new and fresh in his monotonous life. That something was Frannie’s character. And he knew that the chemistry that was sure to fire between them would translate flawlessly to the screen. This was a once in a lifetime film. He could feel the makings of a classic in his hands. He just had to act his heart out. There was a duet, even though the scene was supposed to be a playful conflict, with the two of them fighting over the right to the microphone during a shared bit. Making music together sounded too good to be true. He couldn’t wait.

On stage for rehearsals of the first scene, he recalled in the script that Frannie’s character wouldn’t be revealed until the first ten minutes in. It opened with a shot of Elvis playing the piano, a slower number than Elvis was used to, but Jake’s style of rock and roll was heavy on the roll. The guitarist was an actor he wasn’t familiar with, but the film barely had any focus on him other than a side plot knocking up a cocktail waitress.

The director was a lovely, warm woman in her late 50s. Elvis shook her hand and was surprised with its firmness. There was a boyish twinkle in her weathered eyes and she seemed born to direct with her motherly cadence. She patted Elvis on the upper back with her big meaty hand, walloping him good and cheering, “I couldn’t believe it ‘til I saw it. You know you were my first choice. Something tells me you understand this character very well. I’m glad you chomped at the bit. I know we’re going to make great things together. I’m gonna make you act yer heart out, Presley!”

Cassandra’s canvas chair creaked loudly as she hunkered down and took her lavalier and shouted, “Action!”

Though he was heartened by the director’s enthusiasm, he couldn’t help but feel a welling sense of disappointment as well. He thought he’d be seeing Francesca by now, but she was nowhere to be spotted, at least until he practiced his lines and the narration that he was supposed to record over the scene. He was struck, mid-sentence, when the metal exit door creaked open and a figure slipped into the darkness of the crowd, whispers lighting up in greeting to welcome the shadow in. The dim lights warmed, and Elvis could see her clearly.

She walked on set that day, a star. He knew just looking at her that she was born for this.

His rehearsal was short and clean, and Cassandra was overjoyed to have seen him in action, clapping for him and thanking dress for whoever picked a white suit for the opening scene. It was stark against the black Wurlitzer. They chose to film in Vegas for real slot machines to rent, adding authenticity to the vibe. The irony of the jackpots going off in the background wasn’t lost on him.

Francesca Ferrara was a silent marvel, blending in, strikingly indistinguishable when she wanted to be. She leaned against Cassandra, and whatever muttering they shared made them both laugh sweetly behind their hands.

“Oh stop. Get up there, sweetheart. You can worry about makeup later.”

She was fussed over for a moment, her hair brushed and a clean sheen of red applied to her cupid’s bow lips. He was struck right through, clutching his chest as she rose up the set steps.

The spotlight was cast, its honeyed glow illuminating her as she walked in from the left of stage. It made a halo in her hair. She was intense from the moment she took center and began her performance bold and clean and with grace in her casual attire. A black dress top and red silk skirt. She already looked the part of an ardent card slinger with a secret past (and a secret set of hidden pipes). It was a whisper to begin, lulling the crowd in. She hadn’t practiced any vocals, but what left her was honed and mighty.

Elvis was rapt, standing amongst the crew, attentive on her. She spun and her skirt draped like a second skin against her shapely legs. Her timbre was soulful, all-American in its honesty. She didn’t close her throat around her vowels, she didn’t whisper, she trusted herself to carry every note with masterful precision. Her hair twirled about her face and he could see her alight.

“I can’t believe you’re really here. This is my first time working on a big Hollywood budget kind of thing.” A crew member tried chatting him up, murmuring low so that she didn’t interrupt Frannie’s practice, but it was distracting him. He nodded politely but tight.

“Uh huh. It’s the big leagues alright.”

“I’m Sherri. I’m the one who put you in white. It’s totally your color, hun.” She was way too young to be calling him hun.

He didn’t mean to be rude, but Frannie was consuming his attention, singing, wondering to the audience with song when her life would finally take a turn for the better. When would she finally find the man of her dreams? Did he truly exist? It was over and she went out as gracefully as candlelight in the wind, curtsying with her ankles crossed and skirt held aloft.

The spotlight on her shuddered then flicked off when the air conditioning unit for the studio hummed to life. Frannie exited stage without preamble. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t looking for him.

He watched her meander through the backstage with grace, never a step out of line. Her movements were taken with such… precision. It was like a dance she never stopped, on her toes with a devastating smile. A smile Francesca rarely titled his way, substituting instead for raw surmisal. It was almost like she was waiting. For him to make a fool of himself. He followed her around set, but she was just out of reach somehow, and whenever she got close enough for him to start a conversation, someone would intercept his path and vie for his attention.

“When I told my Dad I was going to be working on a film with Elvis Presley, he couldn’t believe it! Do you mind if I get an autograph? I promise I won’t always be pestering you like this. I just have to shoot my shot. I loved you in Jailhouse Rock and King Creole! Haha, ain’t that what life is? A couple of good moments.”

Elvis grinned, finding the kid endearing. “And all the rest is trying to chase them. What’s your name, young man?”

“Edward! But all my friends call me Eddie. So, you can call me Eddie for sure, Mr. Presley! And I’m—and I’m just a gaffer. But if you ever need anything you just send for me. Say the word, and I’ll have it done. We’re all here for you!” He was filled with enthusiasm, bright eyes wide with wonder as he pulled out a notebook with only two other signatures on the first page. A young buck in the cinematography world. Elvis smiled back.

Thanks for always looking out for me, Eddie. From your pal, Elvis Presley.

“You ain’t tearing up, are you?” Elvis laughed when Eddie’s face pinkened as the young man clutched his notebook tight.

“No sir, dust in my eyes. It’s just so… dusty up there in the scaffolding.” He sniffled, smiling at him before politely, letting Elvis get back to finding Frannie.

“Hey, do you know where Miss Ferrara went?”

“I think she stepped outside for a smoke?” Eddie pointed towards the glowing exit sign and Elvis booked it, keeping his gaze fixed straight so that no one would be tempted. He made it to the door and pushed, stepping out into the shaded alleyway.

Elvis spotted her instantly. She was smiling to a kindly makeup extra who was puffing away, giving her a little wave before she finally turned her attention towards him. She didn’t have a cigarette, she’d just stepped out for air.

Her gaze nearly tipped him over and he couldn’t remember the last time a girl really made his heart skip, but here he was, thinking up one liners, sweet nothings, compliments about her glossy hair—something. Anything. But when he opened his mouth to finally break the handful of seconds’ silence, she offered out her elegant hand for him to take. It was warm, her fingers hugged lovingly by glittering jewels. Did she feel the sweat in his palm?

“And you must be Elvis Presley,” she grinned, taking back her hand and leveling him with a look. There was that flicker of resolve in her fierce eyes, just like on stage at Johnny Carson’s show. When the stage light was a halo behind her head and he heard her voice warble, not with falter, but with emotion, constricting her elegant throat. He had to have her. That kind of conviction was rare in a woman.

“Francesca.” He cursed himself for not kissing the cool back of her palm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“I’m sure,” she teased, but with a bit of venom in her purr. “So, what’s a big star like you doing on a movie set like this? Isn’t the role a little... non-traditional for you?” Heavy with insinuation, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach her question, to approach her. She was of a different cut. He knew he’d never met a woman like her.

“When I saw you on Carson, I knew we had to mix some of our star power together. For the good of the movie going people,” he joked. “Give them something like they’ve never seen before.”

Francesca smiled, but it lacked warmth. She was analyzing him. “Then let’s make magic together, Presley.” She said unconvincingly and he realized at once that she had no faith in him. That sinking feeling that he got at those uppity parties, of immaturity and shallowness, washed over him in waves now. She hadn’t even seen his rehearsal and she already doubted him. Was this a mistake after all?

“You can trust me, Frannie, I’d never—”

“Only my friends call me Frannie. Just call me Miss Ferrara, please.” Her voice was pretty, lightly accented with a New York lilt. He could smell her perfume. She was even more stunning in person. Suddenly, he was dizzy. “I’m getting back inside and out of this heat,” she offered. Fall couldn’t set in quickly enough.

Elvis watched her sway away without an argument, wondering how he’d already screwed this up. He’d never really had to introduce himself to anyone, to make a good impression. He just showed up and was the life of the party. Ladies flocked to him and guys wanted to hang out with him. Approaching a guarded woman was a new beast entirely but he was undaunted. Tailing after her, he slid his hands coolly in his pockets.

“So, what are you doing after this? We can talk over dinner.”

“I’m too tired to talk. I still have another two hours of rehearsal, Elvis Presley.”

“Well, maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend.”

“I’m busy next weekend.”

“Okay. Well,” he stumbled to open the door for her and she didn’t regard him as she trotted on through without breaking her stride. “What about the weekend after that?”

“Busy then, too.”

Elvis’s face flattened. “I get the message, Frannie—cesca. Francesca Ferrara. Uh, Miss Ferrara.” He was approached by some crew members with notepads and proper autograph books, pictures of him. They mirrored how Elvis felt, tailing after Francesca, who left him to his groupies.

“I was there at your premiere in Memphis last year! I spent my whole Christmas bonus on those tickets!”

“Mr. Presley! Are you busy after this? A bunch of the crew were going to Marco’s for lunch. Cassandra’s treat!”

“What are you asking him for? Of course he’s going! Elvis, come on. Pile in with the rest of us!”

Elvis laughed, eyes glancing for an out. He’d rather just have a day to wind down since his scene rehearsal was finished for the evening, but he relented, placating them with a smile and joining in. Somehow, Elvis’ Memphis crew found him and jumped in their own cars to follow. Frannie was nowhere in the sight and certainly hadn’t booked a separate ride to the restaurant.

It was dim and the portions were tiny and the conversations were ones he’d had thousands of times already.

“Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Did you ever freeze up on stage?”

“Do you have a favorite song to perform?”

“What do you think you have that makes you Elvis Presley?”

He was tired. He wanted to be someone again, not a thing, an object, an idol, an undigested voice. No one wanted to know a deeper, more meaningful him. It was always about the act, the playing, the singing, and the glamor. Didn’t anyone want to know what his worst fear was? What kept him getting out of bed everyday when there was almost nothing worldly left for him to achieve? How for a time, he felt he couldn’t go on living after his mama died? He had everything, fame, money, charisma. He could reach for top shelf trim whenever he desired and yet his heart was always empty. Tired of the vices, he longed for a connection. And he promised himself that tomorrow would be in line with his goals, that he’d make Francesca see that he had more to him than critically panned cheese and charm.

Francesca just didn’t like him. He was a ham. A sock hop with fourteen moves under his belt exactly. She counted them. He fubbed his lines and under spoke, his voice almost an indiscernible mumble at times. Other times he was just bleakly shouting without a hint of emotional inflection. She felt there was wasted potential there. But for the moment, he couldn’t act to save his life and yet he was the center of attention. No matter what he did, people loved him. It was like Francesca had a meter for detecting bullshit and Elvis was riddled with it. What he did have going for him was his flair. His artistry. His charisma. And God help her, that voice. His voice was like a whiskey hammer, strong and soothing. It rolled over her like black silk, a lover’s caress.

He took the thunder in almost every rehearsal scene he was in. If they had to act like they were in a bitter argument, Elvis was always more emotional, more explosive. If they had to practice their duet, she could feel him trying to suffocate her voice with his. And to make it all worse, he did all this obnoxiously and obliviously. She knew what he was trying to do, emphasis on try. He clearly wanted to impress. Not just the director, but her. He wanted Frannie to take him seriously. But if one-upping her was all he had, then he’d better be prepared for filming, because she was holding back right now, letting him burn all the glory he wanted. Sprinting hard and fast, not realizing the length of this endurance race. She stayed with him, jogging aloofly alongside, performing her part for rehearsals. Never missing a day, even if she wasn’t required on set.

Not only was Presley grating on her nerves, his meddling weasel of a manager with the shark eyes and angry red cheeks, always glared at her whenever he graced them with his presence. He never stopped trying to talk her agent down, to make a change in the headliner decision. It was Francesca’s one request. She didn’t care about the money nearly as much as Dominick, which is why she gave him such a generous 20% cut (that he objected to time and time again, saying she needed to build her estate up and enjoy her youth while she still had it). She just wanted to be a star. For everyone to know her name. Ask anyone for anywhere who Elvis Presley was, and they could tell you. Ask anyone outside of young people who Francesca Ferrara was? Deadpan stares.

To say it was irritating would be an understatement. It wasn’t fair to her to watch him prance in the limelight like a show pony. But at least he wasn’t the highest billed, and she held that close to her heart with pride. Dominick could work magic; he was the only man involved with this she had any faith in.

Elvis, however, worryingly acted like he was about to star in his next big flop and bring Frannie down before she truly had the chance to shine on her own merit. If she was going to lose, she didn’t want to keep herself tied to him. She’d be “that one girl in that one Elvis movie. What was it called again?” She shuddered to think about her future if this big break didn’t pan out. Was hitching herself to the Presley wagon a mistake?

So, she dedicated herself ten-fold to her theatrics and practiced hard, applied herself harder. She was in the dance studio in her free time, honing her skills, tightening her spirals, widening her devastating smile. Slowly, but surely, she would sway them all. Make them all her adoring fans.

Tonight, it rained hard on the tin studio roof. The lights were low, and the stage echoed with the whispers of her feet pittering across the lacquered floor. She didn’t have on shoes to give her blisters some relief, and the added grip made her even more agile. Music played in her head. For this scene, she was supposed to be in a round. The camera would cut to each character lamenting their current situation in harmony, longing for their dreams to one day come true. In the next scene, she would be alone in her dingy motel room, sitting on the bed and counting her cash, hiding it in the mattress. The dance would intersperse, haunting and flighty, like a specter, because that was her character’s life. Bouncing from one place to the next, always on the run and never somewhere long enough to make a human connection with anyone. She was losing herself, a shell of who she wanted to be.

It seemed like no matter what she did, she would be in his shadow. And for that alone, she disdained him with an unbridled intensity. She snubbed his advances, tossing him out to like feed for hungry extras on set who were vying for their next meal.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Presley?” Emphasis on the anything.

“You know I’m also a licensed masseuse. I can see so much tension you’re carrying in those doorway-busting shoulders.”

“You seein’ anybody, Mr. Elvis?”

It was eye rolling at first but after a time, rolling them so much gave her a migraine. She downed two ibuprofen, drinking from the canteen and crushing the little paper cup in her hand. She could feel the pills still stuck in her throat and she swallowed dryly, eyes watering to the sound of the director praising Elvis yet again for such a good performance. She hated admitting it, but was Cassandra actually getting a good performance out of him?

Throwing the cup into the garbage, she shook the thought out of her head. No, the only thing the lackey could do was sing and even then, he had to be in a serious mood. He was intent on his perceived conquest of her. She felt like hunted game when she turned a corner to find him conveniently there for her to bump into, hit with the heady wash of his piney cologne. He helped her to her waiting golf cart, hopping into his garish pink Cadillac. He offered her a ride every time and every time she declined him.

“Coffee?”

“It upsets my stomach.”

“There’s a new Italian place down the street from—”

“I don’t like Italian.” Total bluff, she grew up on the stuff. Frannie made sure not to ever eat lasagna leftovers in front of him.

“I have a cabin up in Gatlinburg, you should come out sometime. Perfect view of the stars.”

“I can see them just fine from my balcony.” Another lie. The city lights suffocated any natural starlight. When she looked up, she could see the moon and little else but Orion’s lonely belt. Her disdain was threatening to turn into loathing with his insistent pestering, his constant lackadaisy attitude. He showed up on time the first few weeks, but he’d taken to coming in late occasionally or playing pick-up games on set with his pack of hangers on from Memphis. His routine was without practice.

Cassandra’s enthusiasm waned, but only a tad bit. She wasn’t afraid of scaring him off with critique, telling him to tighten up his act and try it again from the top. Her patience was endless, and she was determined to pull a show-stopping performance from him. Cassandra knew he had it in him. But Elvis struggled with some of the more complex footwork, stumbling once and catching himself, his palms slapping loudly against the stage. He wrung his hands, his wrists swollen and red the next day.

He had to go to the hospital for them to tell him he’d suffered a fracture in each wrist, but that he should heal without any issues after some rest and keeping them in a cast. He was encouraged to wear them on set, but he refused when performing.

“They just slow me down, anyways.”

Elvis missed a few days of filming, stalling production considerably. He was apologetic and embarrassed. Francesca practiced her rehearsals without him, going over her part of the duet again and again. She perfected her choreography, working after hours with a dance coach to help her flexibility. Show stopping high kicks and quick splits. There was nothing that could stand in her way.

She caught him looming once when she was going over another routine, practicing her lines and her placement. There was a cartwheel that kept dropping her voice and she wanted to train the warble out. Everything else was flawless, except for that one note.

“Take me awAy!”

Agh, she did it again! And then she saw him in the back row of chairs that some of the crew sat in. He was watching her. She pretended not to notice.

In make-up today, disaster struck. When Margo was going on about her boyfriend’s new job at the furniture store, her cigarette breath punctuating her words, she uncapped the same red lipstick that was used for Josephine every day. But as she painted the cream across Frannie’s lips, the actress cried out, swatting the tube out of her hand. It hit the ground and rolled, breaking the lipstick bullet off its base.

Margo reached down, taking it in her hands while Frannie cupped her stinging mouth. On the takeaway, there was a line of blood.

“What the hell?” Margo exclaimed, showing Frannie that a sewing needle had been inserted inside the wax. It was sticking out just enough to nick.

The room seemed to tilt. The lights on her cheval glass blurred. Someone had tried to hurt her.

Unceremoniously, the lipstick plunked into the trash and Margo reached into her kit to draw out a fresh backup among the dozen others. She peeled the plastic casing and popped it open, inspecting it, running the tip across her wrist and just swiping clean color.

“This one is just fine, sweetheart. Don’t you worry. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this. I’ll have security tell me who was here last night. They usually keep a headcount. They’re good about that.” But the words were muffled in Francesca’s ears as her heart began to pound.

Who would have done this to her?

She was frazzled for the rest of her rehearsal, stumbling over her own two feet after having danced her heart out during practice late last night. And who else had been there? She knew Elvis and a few extras. Sure, he was annoying but he’d never once seemed threatening. This was just downright malicious.

It took her focus completely off track and she went through the motions without soul, guarded, eyes shifting across the crew, like she might see a sign. Elvis was watching her intently, but then again, he often did.

During her lackluster performance, a loud clang sounded above her. Frannie flinched as a light came crashing down, shattering on impact just a few feet from her. It was small, but if that’d hit her, she’d be knocked out cold.

She breathed a sigh of relief, finding that her nerves weren’t baseline at any point, fluttering high. She laughed the incident off though on the inside, she was rattled. Her lips were sore when she smiled. “That was almost lights out for me!”

“Oh my god! Eddie!” Someone screamed, pointing to the back of the stage, where just below the curtains, a pair of feet could be seen dangling, kicking.

Francesca realized she was looking at the gaffer, Edward, a rope lassoed tightly around his neck and left hand. His teeth were bared as he struggled to push against the tension of the rope, his legs jutting out straight, his free arm wiggling wildly. He couldn’t manage a cry for help beyond a high-pitched rasp.

People were scrambling, trying to find a ladder, but the young man’s face was beginning to purple.

She couldn’t believe what she was witnessing, her legs were moving of their own accord. He wasn’t so high that he couldn’t be reached, or at least his feet anyways. She knew she couldn’t get him down on her own but before she could even try, a man pushed past her, gently moving her aside. It was Presley, looking taller somehow as he lifted his gentle hands up, giving the dangling stagehand a place to stand if only for a brief second. His legs wobbled, knees bowing back, but the crew were all suffused whispers for a brief second, listening for the young boy to breathe.

“Oh my god, Edward, just breathe, honey. The boys are about to cut you down now, just breathe sweetie,” Francesca’s heart was pounding. Presley’s arms were straight up, his sleeves rolling down, his shirt constricting around his powerful chest. She knew his wrists must be on fire, as she could see they were still yellow and purple with healing bruising.

Someone managed to find a ladder and scurried up, hacking the rope after a few of the men gathered together, lacing their arms to catch him. The rope gave and Eddie fell back with a gasp, his face beet red, his eyes bulging, veins completely blown out and bleeding into his sclera. But he was already happily choking, tears freefalling as he profusely rasped, “You saved my life. Elvis, you saved my life.”

“Just relax, Eddie. We’re getting you to a hospital.”

Eddie wheezed, unable to lift his head or move his broken wrist.

“What happened?” Someone asked from the tight circle of concerned faces.

Cassandra shook her head. “It’s that damn scaffolding. It’s going to come down and kill someone.”

Francesca felt superstition warning her that the film might be cursed. Had her bitterness transformed into malevolence and wreaked havoc on set? She glanced up at Elvis through her curtain of dark hair with new eyes. Seeing him jump into action like that had shifted her view of him just slightly for the better. She must have been smiling, because when he caught her looking his way, he grinned back, looping his arm under Eddie’s shoulder and helping him to a stand.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you in the car. Wanna tell your old man you got to ride in my Cadillac?”

“No way…” Eddie croaked, “You think I could drive it back?”

“We’ll uh, we’ll have to take a rain check on that. But one day, kid, one day!”

Frannie couldn’t help but find this side of him endearing. So, she joined him. Much to his surprise.

“What if he passes out or something? Looks like you need a hand with him,” she suggested, hopping into the back. When Elvis grabbed the steering wheel, he grunted, frozen. Eddie didn’t seem to notice as he winced and bellyached, trying to find some way he could hold his sprained neck without causing severe pain.

With grace, Frannie grabbed the headrest and leaned forward, her voice wet at Elvis’s ear when she asked, “Do you want me to drive?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, looking straight ahead, the shells of his ears flushing pink. “You know what? Give her a whirl. Just be careful, she’s sensitive.”

Surprised with his casualness, she slotted into the driver’s seat in his place, the plush leather still warm from his body. His long legs needed the space, but Frannie had to scoot up to the steering wheel before settling comfortably in.

The ride was smooth and she took every turn with care, with Elvis pointing over her shoulder. “Now turn right here, traffic’s going to have Main Street backed up.” He’d obviously spent a lot of time in Las Vegas before. He checked over Eddie, telling him, “Now when you tell the story, you can say it was my Caddy, but that you were driven by the Francesca Ferrara.”

She smirked, choosing to take that as a complement, even if he loaded that with patronization. They didn’t have to wait long at all in the ER—apparently any injury above the shoulders was considered high risk and the patient was swept immediately away.

Eddie called his parents, but they were out of town. Elvis volunteered to be his ride and Eddie begged him to just go home—he obviously had more important things to do, being Elvis Presley, after all—but Presley just assured him. “No, no, I really don’t.”

While Eddie was being looked over by physicians, Elvis got them something out of the vending machines, telling Francesca, “See, I told you I’d take you out for dinner one day.”

Frannie couldn’t stifle her laugh. He got her with that. Now she pondered when he was going to ask her again, but she didn’t have to wonder long when after inhaling a pack of cheese crackers, he brought up the topic.

“You know dating on set means asking for trouble. Right?” She asked, looking out at the darkening, orange sky.

“You seem like the kinda girl who doesn’t mind a little trouble.”

He thought he was slick. And maybe he was. “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Presley.”

“Call me Elvis, please,” he insisted. “Come on. Just one date. Dinner. A movie. Horseback riding on the beach. Anything you want.”

“Don’t try to charm me.”

“So, you’re saying I’m charming?” He smirked playfully.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mama always told me ladies like a man with consistency. I like you, Frannie. I like you a lot.”

She couldn’t detect any dishonesty. It almost seemed like he was earnest in taking her out on a real date. But she still didn’t want to budge on the principle of dating her co-stars. That was a hot pot of drama waiting to blow. Perhaps she could meet him halfway, just this once. Holding up one finger, she told him, “Take me as a friend to the carnival. There’s one next week in Indian Springs.”

He was like a dog with a bone, wagging his tail. He finally got a bite and practically shot up in victory. Elvis pumped his fist boyishly.

“Then I’ll be the best friend you could ask for,” he assured, leaving her with a week to ruminate on if this was the first of many bad decisions with this dangerously likable man.

Elvis watched her dark hair cascade down her shoulders. Her hips swayed sensuously when she walked, inviting his gaze to linger. Francesca drew almost everyone’s eyes, turning heads when she made her way to the ticket booth in her fire red dress, gems glinting on her throat and in her stormy tresses. She splurged on the limitless pass, presenting the back of her hand proudly to be stamped with a bright yellow star, one to match his as he made the same purchase, kicking himself for not covering hers—not that she even gave him a chance. She was adamant on making this as casual as she could.

He wanted her arm in his. He wanted her to lean her pretty head against his shoulder while they walked in step to the Ferris wheel. While she had a big panda bear or something he won her. It seemed so… trivial of her, to pick something like this. Low brow, even. He loved it. There were single moms with lines of unruly children in tow, trash skittering across whatever parking lot the fair rented out, and Frannie was beaming, smiling from ear to ear, eyes reflecting the string lights like fireworks.

“What’s first? I’m real good at ring toss.” He absolutely wasn’t, but anything to get her one step closer to taking him—them?—seriously, was a step in the right direction.

She shook her head, pointing to the carousel, adjacent to a funnel cake stand and a house of mirrors. Trapezing ahead without him, he was starting to suspect he was getting recognized even with his hat on as eyes followed the pair and hands cupped over secret sharing mouths as people whispered.

“I don’t want to carry around some big stuffed animal the whole time,” she remarked about the game of ring toss he mentioned earlier. “And besides, I don’t want to school you in ring toss, it’d just be embarrassing for you.” She grinned, sending a flare of heat up his spine. Dynamite. He tailed after her long strides, wondering how she was walking in those lacquered things that sure made her hips look good.

“Alright, alright. You’re the boss. Let’s do what you’d like first, then.”

She pointed to the Fireball. A sketchy looking hoop of metal with a snake of carts that went in a 360, first fast, then slow, then counterclockwise. It made his stomach churn just looking at it, but she was giddy, eating up the distance between them and the ride.

“If you don’t want to ride, you can just watch,” she suggested, grinning at him over her shoulder. She was egging him on.

“As much as I’d love to watch you get scared all by your li’l self, I’ll join you. My treat.” He sidled in next to her, lifting his arms as the bright yellow cage restraints shuddered down over their shoulders. He evened his breathing, and involuntarily gasped when the ride shot forward sooner than he expected. Frannie was already screaming excitedly, her hair billowing around her thrilled face. They made the first revolutions and Elvis realized that these janky machines, hissing and clanking, gained more heart, more charm and whimsy when you had someone to share the memory with.

Even though they were both a peck dizzy, they stumbled to the game booths anyway. And although Frannie absolutely did not school him at ring toss like she boasted, she did blow him away at darts. Nailing every high value balloon point blank, dead center. She won him a teddy bear in a smoking jacket, with a hot pair of shades to match. He was tickled, taking the little bear under his arm like a treasure, toting him everywhere and even putting him on the carousel and on the whirly swings next to them.

He won her a giant panda bear after spending way more than its worth on his chances at skeeball. His wrists were still sore from his fall on set, but he was determined to win her something memorable and to see the mirth when she embraced it tightly near the end of the night, just how she wanted. It was all worth it.

Frannie introduced him to the delights of obscenely large funnel cake and vinegar fries, and he convinced her to try her first chili dog. She apparently only ever ate them with sauerkraut, from hot dog stands in New York.

“You know, where I come from, a kid would get bullied for eating a dog with no chili.” He made her laugh for the dozenth time of the night and lavished in the wind chime sound. The way she threw her head back. The way her eyes sparkled.

In the house of horrors, she startled him with a funny little, “Boo!” after dashing ahead when he stopped for a moment to fix his loafer. He exaggerated his surprise for her a little and she reveled in it, reminding him happily through different points of the night, “I got you good back there, didn’t I?”

You certainly did, Francesca.

On the way back, he drove with his arm across her shoulders. It was rare that he ever did anything without his crew, but boy was he glad he did tonight. Wind blew in their hair and star spray reflected on the chrome trimming. He could see her dark curves outlined by slivers of moonlight. He felt like he was in a dream as he drove the empty stretch of backroads to the city and finally towards her luxurious apartment. Heart in his throat, his palms were damp when he opened the passenger door and helped her across the sidewalk.

The doorman, Bennington, tipped his hat to her and then looked at Elvis once, twice, three times before his eyes bugged and his diligent demeanor cracked.

“No way. You’re.... you’re—him! Francesca Ferrara, now you have some explaining to do. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing the—”

“Nuh uh,” Frannie laughed heartily, holding up her palm. “We’re just friends, Bennington. You know I’d tell you if I had a man in my life!”

He smacked his lips at her, back to focusing on Presley. “I’m kicking myself. I thought you had his haircut when you picked up Miss Francesca, but I told myself there was no way! Now, I always said if I saw you in person, I’d have something for you to sign but my boss would kill me if I got ink on my uniform.” He patted his chest but came up empty handed.

“I’ll do you one better,” Elvis proposed, unfastening his diamond and pearl cufflinks. “How about these? They even have my name stamped on ‘em. See?”

Bennington’s mouth was agape, his hands cradled in prayer to hold the cufflinks. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Presley. Thank you! Thank you so much!” He pocketed them for safe keeping. “Boy, this is the best night of my life.”

“Mine too,” Elvis said, cupping young Bennington’s shoulders and bidding him a good night.

Frannie was bowled over by his generosity. She stopped at the elevator, hitting the call button and waiting for it to come cruising down the transparent glass tube.

“Tonight was fun. I don’t really get to have a lot of fun. My life is just exhausting sometimes. I-it’s nice to get to do something like this every once in a while,” he cooed. Her glossy hair had come undone from its jeweled bindings. She squeezed the stuffed panda he’d won her and smiled that heart stopping smile.

He was devastated, knowing that when the elevator doors opened, he’d be alone shortly thereafter.

“Thank you, Elvis.”

She leaned in to kiss him and his lips were slightly pursed, his pulse rocketing. But she pressed her lips gingerly against his cheek, her perfume suffusing him, all cinnamon and powdered sugar.

“Anytime, Frannie.”

She let him get away with it as she turned her back towards him and entered the elevator, the doors shutting and whisking her up. He could see she was looking at him all the way up. Was she thinking about letting him in? She’d communicated very clearly that this wasn’t a date. So why was he so torn up about being left in the lobby, and walking past cheery Bennington who said with surprise, “Oh, goodnight Mr. Presley! Get home safe. And good luck on set!”

Elvis acknowledged him and returned the gesture, legging it to his car and shutting the door, revving it on the start. And although he was forlorn about going back to his cavernous home in the desert, he glanced in the rearview and saw that hot red lip imprint on his cheek.

Francesca liked him. She just had to give him a chance to make her fall in love. Like he was already falling for her.

#gambling on your love #elvis presley #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis #elvis fanfic #elvis fans #elvis presley fanfic #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis x oc #elvis fic #'60s elvis

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thnxforknowingme · 2 years

Text

A Matter of Distance

Pairing: Kurtbastian Rating: M Word Count: ~10k

Summary: Sebastian and Kurt live in different cities, leading their own lives, only crossing paths when Sebastian visits New York and they hook up. It’s fun and easy, the way they slip into each other’s lives as long-distance friends with benefits, but things get a little more complicated over the years.

Notes: Countless thanks to @backslashdelta for betaing - her encouragement and critical eye were crucial to making this fic as good as it is.

Sebastian’s applying to another job while at work.

There’s little chance of him getting caught, with his private office and computer screen facing away from any potential visitors, but he doesn’t care that much anyway. Actually, if he did get caught, maybe his supervisor would panic and they’d offer him a raise.

He spins his pen between his fingers as he proofreads the email before sending it off. The salary for the position is higher than what he earns currently, but probably not proportional to how much his cost of living would go up if he moved.

He closes the tab and tries to focus on his current job, instead of hedging his bets on the future.

He misses New York, that’s all. It was nice to be in a bigger city, the center of the world. He’s grown bored of Providence lately - of his apartment, his job, the nightlife, the men - and New York might bring some needed excitement into his life. Plus, a lot of his college friends are still there.

He has plenty of good reasons to move back to New York. But he knows what the biggest reason is, and he steadfastly refuses to admit it to himself.

Eight Years Ago

“Out! With! A! Bang!” The crowd shouts together, and on the last syllable Devin opens a bottle of champagne with explosive force, the cork soaring into the night sky.

Sebastian’s laughing as someone thumps him on the back, and then Devin passes him a plastic champagne flute, the outside already sticky with spilled alcohol. He holds it up gamely, reviving the cheers of the partygoers, and then takes a long sip of the bubbly liquid.

It’s all that he could have asked for from a going-away party and more.

They’re at a rooftop bar, rented out for the evening, crowded full to burst with grad students, clubbing friends, lacrosse teammates, and random people who were dragged along or just wanted to crash a party. The night tastes like expensive alcohol and possibility. It’s everything Sebastian has loved about the city, here for one last encore before he moves away.

His closest friends from the MBA program he just finished had presented him with his outfit for the evening - one of those ubiquitous “I ♥ NY” shirts, but with the sleeves cut off to create a loose bro tank. His neighbor brought him a plastic golden crown, which is perched crookedly on his head.

Once several bottles of champagne have been poured and dispersed, the music volume increases, and Sebastian wanders around the bar, trying to split his attention between everyone. Drinks are constantly being pressed into his hand, and he’s well past tipsy by the time he notices Kurt.

Kurt…something with an H. He’s a friend of Maxie’s. Or maybe Maxie had dated him, or maybe Maxie had fucked his roommate. Kurt-H-Something-Who-Somehow-Knew-Maxie had been hanging around in their orbit for several weeks, joining Sebastian’s motley crew of friends at various bars and parties. He works in theater, somehow. A few times there have been various other alt-looking theater nerds tagging along with him.

Sebastian had been drawn to Kurt immediately because he was so unlike the finance bros he spent most of his time with. He’s intriguing, and although he isn’t Sebastian’s type he can’t deny that Kurt’s got a nice body. A shiny, new opportunity for entertainment.

Tonight he’s leaning against a railing, holding a cocktail, talking with Maxie and some woman Sebastian doesn’t recognize. Sebastian adjusts the crown on his head and walks over.

He lets them all fawn over him for a moment, wishing him goodbye and good luck and complimenting the party. Then the song booming through the sound system changes, and Sebastian makes some enthusiastic comment about how much he likes it. He moves into Kurt’s personal space so that he can swipe the glass from his hand and down the last sip of liquid inside. “Dance with me?” he asks, meeting Kurt’s gaze boldly.

If he weren’t drunk already he might have opted for a more subtle approach. But he’s leaving New York in 36 hours, and he’s decidedly unsober.

Kurt rolls his eyes, but lets himself be pulled into the center of the roof, already crowded with uncoordinated dancers.

Sebastian doesn’t know the name of the song that’s playing, but he’s heard it on the radio, danced to it in clubs. He feels the bassline buzz through his veins as he pulls Kurt close, moving his hips in time to the beat. He dares to rest his hands on Kurt’s waist, and Kurt responds by running a hand down Sebastian’s bare bicep.

“This is a ridiculous shirt,” Kurt says, leaning in close to be heard, breath warm against Sebastian’s cheek.

“That’s sort of the point,” Sebastian replies. “And I don’t think you’re one to call other people’s clothing ridiculous.”

Kurt laughs, and Sebastian feels it more than hears it. “I may make some bold choices, but this is just trashy.” Even as he complains about it, he continues to drag his finger along the edge of the shirt, down the side of Sebastian’s pec to his ribs where the fabric is cut open.

“If it’s so offensive to you,” Sebastian says, meeting Kurt’s gaze with a grin, “I could just take it off.”

Kurt’s pupils are wide, inky black, mesmerizing. “Now, there’s an idea.”

Sebastian is just leaning in, brushing his nose against Kurt’s cheekbone, when suddenly a large hand claps on his shoulder and he’s startled backwards.

“There he is!” It’s Devin, shouting, all affable bravado. “Come on, Seb, we’ve been looking for the guest of honor!”

Kurt’s hand falls away from his side as Devin wraps an arm around him and starts to pull him away. “Man, quit it,” Sebastian tries to object.

“Oh, no sir, it’s too early in the night for a hookup,” Devin insists. “We’re doing body shots. Everyone gets a piece of you tonight, man.”

Devin’s grip is iron. Sebastian turns back to Kurt and shrugs, helpless. “Can we take a raincheck?” he asks.

Kurt laughs, throwing his head back so that the light hits his sharp jawline and pale neck. “Sure,” he agrees, waving Sebastian off. Sebastian grins widely, and lets Devin pull him towards the bar, which has been completely cleared off for him to lie down on.

He climbs up at his friends’ insistence, and does end up taking off the shirt, just like he promised Kurt.

Kurt is at a copy shop, waiting for the remaining programs for the theater’s upcoming show to print out, when he gets a text. He pulls out his phone, hoping desperately that it’s not a last-minute change to the programs that will require him to reprint them all, and is surprised to see that it’s from Sebastian Smythe.

Hey I’m gonna be back in nyc for a bit next week, you wanna catch up? grab a drink?

Kurt blinks down at his phone screen. He hasn’t spoken to Sebastian since he moved to Providence last summer sometime - maybe five months ago? And it wasn’t like they had talked much before that, either. Kurt doesn’t expect to be anywhere near the top of his list of people to visit in New York.

He remembers the last time he saw Sebastian, at his extravagant goodbye party, where they’d had…some kind of moment. Something flirty and fun. He isn’t sure how seriously it was all meant - Sebastian seemed to act that way with most men at some point or another, and they’d both been a little drunk. Is this a veiled invitation for a hookup? Or does Sebastian actually want to be friends? And does Kurt care either way?

The constant whir of the printer finally stops, the massive stack of pages ready for Kurt to take, collate, and fold. He considers Sebastian’s message. He’s curious, more than anything, when he texts back, Yeah that sounds great! Tuesday night?

Tuesday finds Kurt tucked into the corner of a cozy bar, laughing uncontrollably as Sebastian tells a story about accidentally trying to break into a neighbor’s apartment when he first moved to Providence.

“So it’s late and I’m pissed and the property manager isn’t picking up,” Sebastian says, using the hand that isn’t holding his Jack and Coke to gesture, “and I’m googling locksmiths on my phone when this woman comes up and asks if she can help me.”

“No!” Kurt gasps, leaning his weight further onto his elbows on the table.

“Yep. So I explain the whole situation, with a pretty rude tone I might add, and she just goes, ‘well the reason your key doesn’t work is that this is my apartment.’”

Kurt covers his face, stifling another laugh.

Sebastian takes a slow sip of his drink. “Yeah, luckily she was surprisingly cool about the whole thing, and gave me directions to get back to my actual apartment.”

Kurt sighs, wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.

It’s the longest conversation he’s ever had with Sebastian, and he’s surprised at just how easy it is. In their acquaintanceship before they were usually only together in large groups, at loud bars, and while he’d grown fond of Sebastian despite his more off-putting qualities, he’s not even sure he would have called him a friend.

So tonight has turned out to be a surprise. Kurt had figured he’d stay for an hour or two and then have an early night in, but by the time he checks his phone it’s already 11:30, and there’s not a single cell in his body that wants to leave.

They stay until after last call, when the bartender starts turning up the music and sending them pointed glances. They gather up their coats to leave, and when they step outside it’s fucking freezing.

“My hotel’s nearby,” Sebastian says, his breath solidifying in the night air. “You wanna go warm up there?”

Kurt isn’t sure how genuinely the innuendo is meant, but he decides he’s fine either way. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They’re quieter as they walk - they still make idle comments about their surroundings, but it isn’t the nonstop conversation that defined the rest of their evening. Kurt wonders at the sudden lull - is it awkward, now that they’re going back to Sebastian’s hotel? He wants to say something to lighten the mood, but he can’t think of anything to talk about. Blurting out something random seems like it would only further compound the awkwardness. He doesn’t want Sebastian to think that he might feel awkward. He remains quiet as they make their way to the hotel and step inside the well-lit lobby.

“Just to warn you,” Sebastian says as he presses the button to call the elevator, “since this is a hotel in Manhattan, it’s just barely more space than one of those Japanese capsule hotels.”

Kurt laughs. “So just a step below my apartment, then.”

The elevator doors slide open. Sebastian shrugs. “I’ve never been to your apartment, but you do sort of strike me as the starving artist type.”

“I think I resent that,” Kurt says as they rise upward through the floors. “Even if it is accurate, for now.”

“For now?” Sebastian challenges.

“That’s right,” Kurt says. They step out on the twelfth floor, and he follows Sebastian down the narrow hallway. “Someday I’ll be rich and famous. You’ll get to say you knew me back when.”

“And how does your neck manage to hold up such a massive head?” Sebastian jokes. He pauses in front of a room, uses a key card to open the door, and gestures for Kurt to enter.

Kurt steps inside and flicks on the light. Sebastian had hardly exaggerated - the decor is nice, but the room takes up the approximate space of a suburban walk-in closet. There’s a queen bed, a small nightstand, an armoire, and a mini fridge with a microwave stacked on top. A TV is mounted to the wall. The door to Kurt’s left is ajar, revealing the bathroom.

Sebastian shuts the door behind them. There’s hardly enough room for them both to stand without touching. This isn’t a social call, a nightcap in a common area where conversation or entertainment is reasonable. It’s a hotel room. There’s only one reason for Kurt to have come here.

“Do you remember the last time I saw you?” Sebastian asks, his voice low.

Kurt turns around to face him. “Do you?” Kurt says. “You were already pretty drunk.”

Sebastian smiles. “Parts of that night are hazy,” he admits. “But you’re hard to forget.”

Kurt rolls his eyes at the line. “Shut up, Smythe,” he says. “You want to finish what we started?”

“God, yes,” Sebastian says, and then he’s closing the scant space between them, reaching up to cup Kurt’s jaw and pull him in hard against his lips.

It’s almost annoying that Sebastian turns out to be a really good lay.

Kurt leaves very early the next morning, since Sebastian has work meetings and Kurt doesn’t want to linger. They say goodbye through yawns, and Kurt walk-of-shames to the subway so he can get back to his apartment, shower, and then fall asleep for a few hours before he has to be at the theater.

He doesn’t think much about Sebastian after that, except when he tells friends about this wild thing that happened - a former acquaintance from out of town showing up and giving him an incredible night out of the blue.

And then, two weeks later, he gets another text: Ran into the woman whose place I almost burgled. She invited me to dinner. Extremely hospitable, or going to murder me in revenge?

Kurt snorts as he reads it, then slaps his hand over his mouth in response to the undignified noise. He replies, If she really wanted to murder you, she would have already done it.

So it becomes a pattern. Kurt doesn’t talk to Sebastian often, but they occasionally exchange texts, references to their few shared experiences or idle banter. Their conversations have little substance, but they’re fun in a way that Kurt doesn’t feel when talking to anyone else. They lead their separate lives in separate cities, but every once in a while they joke and tease back and forth through texts.

Shortly before Memorial Day, Sebastian mentions that he’ll be in the city again for a friend’s birthday. You free to hang out?

Kurt vibrates with anticipation, but forces himself to wait twenty minutes before replying. He doesn’t want to seem too eager and make things weird. Definitely ;)

Sebastian’s never had a friendship quite like this.

Sure, there are people he’s befriended and eventually hooked up with, or guys whose status in his life hovered somewhere between ‘friend’ and ‘booty call.’ But there was no one else who, after sex, he would hang around with in their apartment eating takeout.

“It’s literally just disrespectful,” Kurt says, gesturing sharply with his disposable chopsticks.

Sebastian swallows a piece of sweet and sour pork and says, “I don’t see why this is a big deal.”

He’s sitting on Kurt’s couch, wearing only boxers - Kurt had forbidden him from being naked while they ate - and Kurt’s complaining about some drama at the theater where he works. He looks rumpled and cozy - his hair still a little unruly from their late afternoon tryst, wearing the sweats and undershirt that he’d thrown on to meet the delivery guy downstairs.

Kurt rolls his eyes. “I think you either need to learn something about theater, or I need to stop talking to you about these things, because your ignorance feels a little offensive at this point.”

Sebastian grins. “I don’t ask you to learn about finance.”

“No,” Kurt agrees flatly, “because your job is boring, and I can still understand office politics without having to know exactly what you’re typing into your little spreadsheets.”

Sebastian snorts. “It’s a shame that you’re too clueless to even understand how clueless you are.”

The give and take is easy, second nature, and Sebastian feels like for the first time, he’s found a sharp-tongued equal. Kurt doesn’t even take time to be offended at a barb before he’s launching his own. It’s like a game of chess. Or really good foreplay.

He needs to get back to his hotel room eventually, because he does have places to be early the next morning. But he has no more plans for tonight, and he’s hopeful that Kurt will be up for a second round. Even if all they do is eat Chinese food and bitch back and forth at each other, the evening will still be pretty enjoyable.

Kurt steps into his apartment, tosses his keys into the basket by the door, and lets out a long sigh.

He’s just so tired of this - of false starts and mismatches, of promise and excitement that shrivels up, of break-ups and bad dates. Romantic as he is, he’s never managed to hold onto a serious, adult relationship for long. Even the guys that there’s a spark with, the ones who seem to have potential - something always goes wrong. Their goals don’t match up, or they move out of town, or there’s some unbearable habit of theirs that eventually shows through the cracks.

The date Kurt had tonight, though - it was just bad. No potential whatsoever.

He walks into the kitchen and pauses, glancing between the liquor shelf and the freezer. He decides he really doesn’t want to risk a hangover the next day, and opts for the ice cream.

With a carton of cookies and cream and a single spoon, Kurt turns the TV to a One Tree Hill rerun and luxuriates in his patheticness. The show isn’t sufficiently distracting, so he picks up his phone to scroll through Twitter. Seeing his message app when he unlocks the phone, he has the sudden urge to talk to someone. He thinks about texting Sebastian.

Sebastian might get a kick out of his dating woes. Or maybe they could just chat idly, cheering Kurt up through their typical fond banter, talking about nothing really but in the most entertaining way. Maybe he could say something flirty, bait Sebastian into complimenting him. They’ve never sexted, but Kurt bets that Sebastian would be into that.

The moment he thinks of it, it becomes so deeply tempting. He knows that no matter what they talk about, just exchanging a few texts with Sebastian will make him feel better. His thumb hovers over the app.

He glances at the time. It’s 10pm on a Friday. Sebastian is probably busy, out on the town or going on a date of his own. Or maybe he’s already in bed - he does work a lot, after all.

Kurt tosses his phone onto the couch and reaches for another spoonful of ice cream. It was a bad idea, anyway. The instinct to reach out to Sebastian when he’s having romantic issues seems like a dangerous precedent. Sebastian’s attention is welcomed, but it’s not the same as a boyfriend. Kurt shouldn’t try to use it as a replacement.

He has sugar and soapy television. He’s gotten through worse nights than this before - he can weather this alone.

Sebastian hears the shower shut off as he opens cabinets in the kitchen, searching for a glass. He finally finds one, fills it with water from the sink, and leans back against the counter.

He generally prefers to bring hookups back to his place, but this guy lived just two blocks from the bar where they met, and it seemed impractical to turn down his invitation. He observes the room around him as he sips his water, noting the crumbs surrounding the toaster, the mail splayed across the dining table. Providence is a small city, and unlike Manhattan, even the cheaper apartments tend to have a liveble amount of space.

The guy - Brennan, Sebastian thinks his name was - walks into the kitchen with a green towel wrapped around his waist. He jerks his chin upward in greeting. “You good?”

Outside of the dim light of the bar, his face is decidedly less handsome than Sebastian initially thought. It doesn’t matter, though - the sex was still pretty good, and they hadn’t been facing each other for most of it anyway. “Yeah,” Sebastian replies. “I’ll head out in a minute.”

Brennan grunts in acknowledgement, and then walks back towards the bedroom. Sometimes guys here will inquire whether he’s sober enough to drive at the end of the night, but Brennan doesn’t bother. Sebastian almost appreciates it - he’s a grown up, he’s responsible, he can get a cab if he needs to without someone nagging him.

Sebastian finishes the water and sets the empty glass by the sink. He double-checks his pockets for his keys, wallet, phone. He wonders if he should say anything, let Brennan know he’s leaving.

Sebastian doesn’t go home with random men to cuddle - he’s looking for a quick, good time, a shot of pleasure to keep him going through the mundanities of life. There’s always a strange sort of dichotomy at play, being let into someone’s home or taking someone into yours, getting them completely physically vulnerable, and then disappearing into the night to never see them again. It’s somehow the deepest of intimacy without any commitment whatsoever, a complete ‘fuck you’ to the general societal expectations.

Brennan had barely caught his breath after orgasm before he was climbing out of bed, away from Sebastian. Sebastian leaves the apartment without a word.

Sebastian got upgraded to a suite for his stay in New York this time, so he and Kurt have significantly more space than usual in which to fool around. They do spend a while on the couch when they first arrive, Sebastian straddling Kurt and exploring every inch of his neck and collarbones and shoulders with his mouth. Once they start fully undressing, though, Kurt insists they move to the bed. It’s a cleanliness thing, he says.

“I really wanted to bend you over that desk by the window, though,” Sebastian complains.

“That sounds extremely uncomfortable,” Kurt says as he undoes his pants. “You’re gonna fuck me on the bed, where there’s pillows and newly-washed sheets.”

And who is Sebastian to say no?

After they’ve cleaned up and gotten dressed, and then lounged around a while longer, Kurt insists he needs to go home. “I’ll walk you to the subway,” Sebastian says, jamming his feet into his shoes.

It’s a block and a half to the station, but they’re long blocks, avenue blocks. It’s not too late, so they frequently pass other people on the street. Kurt mentions how he enjoys taking the J train at night, getting to see Manhattan all lit up as he goes over the bridge, and then they devolve into telling subway horror stories.

It’s odd, Sebastian thinks - when he’s not in New York, it feels like having lived in New York is such a big part of him. But then he comes back to the city every once in a while and he’s surrounded by lifelong New Yorkers, or even transplants like Kurt who have lived here for longer than Sebastian’s handful of years, and it feels a bit foolish to claim New York as part of his identity. He gave up subway rides and late-night bodega trips, and the city moves on without him, unaffected by his absence. He was little more than a long-term tourist.

They reach the subway entrance and pause on the sidewalk to say goodbye. Sebastian leans in to hug Kurt, and - to his surprise, feels Kurt’s lips brush against his face, somewhere between his cheek and chin.

They separate, both a little startled. “Did you kiss me?” Sebastian asks.

“You leaned in!” Kurt insists, defensive.

“I was leaning in to hug you,” Sebastian explains.

“Your face was way too close to my face for that just to be a hug!”

Sebastian laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, we really fucked that up.”

“I was confused,” Kurt says, his expression somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed. “You’ve never kissed me in public before, but I figured I’d go along with it, so I didn’t hurt your feelings.”

Sebastian scoffs. “Well, you misinterpreted the whole situation,” he says. “And now it’s super awkward. I guess we have to never speak to each other again.”

That gets Kurt to smile. “I guess so. Well, it’s been nice knowing you, Smythe.”

“Likewise,” Sebastian replies. “Have a nice life.”

Kurt rolls his eyes and turns around, heading down the steps into the train station. Sebastian watches him go, sees him turn the corner and disappear into the underground.

He waits until he’s back in his hotel room to text Kurt. Look, I’ll forgive you. I know I’m just unbearably kissable. It’s been a problem for other people before.

Kurt’s reply is quick - his train must currently be above ground. Fuck you.

I’d love that, Sebastian texts back. How about some reciprocity though? You should visit Providence some time.

I don’t know what you think my life is like, Kurt answers, but I’m not so desperate for sex that I need to leave the state for it.

You seemed pretty desperate to kiss me, though, Sebastian sends.

That’s been replaced solely by the desire to punch you, Kurt says, and Sebastian laughs.

The night starts off well when Kurt’s date compliments his shoes, and it only gets better from there.

Carter is handsome and gentlemanly, and they go out to dinner at a vegan restaurant on the Upper West Side. The food is delicious, and Kurt snaps a photo of the menu so he can try and recreate some of the dishes at home.

The conversation flows between them, discussing work and family and hobbies. There’s some of that first-date uncertainty at times, pauses when the conversation fizzles out - but it always manages to pick up again, and they both seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves.

After Carter gets the check (insisting that Kurt can pay next time), they decide to find somewhere to get a drink and prolong the evening.

While they’re on the street, walking close down the sidewalk, Kurt feels his phone buzz with a text. He takes it out briefly, just to check that it’s nothing urgent. There’s a new message from Sebastian: I watched that stupid reality show you recommended and I hate it but I’m obsessed.

Kurt knows immediately what he’s referring to - a show that’s equally trashy, sexy, and addicting. He’d brought it up a couple weeks back, when Sebastian had been in town and they’d spent a late night at Kurt’s apartment, watching TV in between rounds of sex. Sebastian had made fun of Kurt’s guilty pleasure shows, and Kurt challenged him to watch his most recent obsession.

A million questions spring to his mind - which contestant is Sebastian’s favorite? How far has he gotten into the show? Has he thrown anything at his TV yet?

But he can feel Carter’s warmth next to him, and he forces himself to put his phone back into his pocket. He’s on a date, and he’s not going to be rude - Sebastian can wait.

The neighborhood seems to be dominated by sports bars, so in avoiding that they end up in an Irish pub. It’s not a venue Kurt dislikes on principle, but he wouldn’t have chosen it for a date. They slide into a booth with their drinks and continue talking.

Kurt notices that Carter frequently sucks his tongue against his teeth before speaking, making a sort of clicking noise. It isn’t that obtrusive, but once he catches it he can’t stop paying attention, and it becomes a little grating.

Kurt can feel the weight of his phone in his pocket, and his fingers itch to take it out.

Carter tells a story about how his father initially wanted to name him Jebediah, after an ancestor, before his mother convinced him not to. It’s a funny story, but it makes Kurt think more about the name ‘Carter.’ Would being part of a couple called Kurt-and-Carter be a little too cutesy?

A group of older men at the bar are being loud, and Kurt keeps having to repeat his words to be heard over the din. He can’t stop thinking about the unanswered text.

They finish their beers and walk outside. “Sorry about that,” Carter says, nodding back at the pub. “Do you want to go somewhere else? Or come back to my place?”

Kurt inhales. “I appreciate the offer,” he says. “And I did have a lovely time tonight, but - I’m pretty tired. I think I need to head home.”

Carter nods, his mouth twisting slightly. “Of course,” he says. “I had a great time, too.”

He steps closer. Kurt shifts back slightly. Carter freezes. “Can I call you?” he asks.

“Definitely,” Kurt replies, forcing himself to smile. It’s been a nice date. Carter seems like a good guy. He should be happy that he wants a second date, but everything has just felt off since they left the restaurant.

“Good,” Carter says gently. “Then I’ll call you. Goodnight, Kurt.”

“Goodnight,” Kurt replies, and then turns to walk to the south. He doesn’t look back to check if Carter is watching him, or if he’s turned the other direction.

Once he’s on the subway platform, waiting for his train, he pulls out his phone. Rereading Sebastian’s text, he grins, giddiness filling his chest. Who do you like best, and why is it Amara? he texts back.

He taps his fingers on the side of his phone and waits for a response. He looks forward to getting back to his apartment, to his bed. He wonders if Sebastian will reply soon, or if he’s busy with other plans tonight.

He glances down the subway tunnel and considers what he’s going to do about Carter. He feels a little bad about ditching him. Carter hadn’t done anything wrong, but if Kurt had spent half the night more occupied with answering a text about reality TV than the conversation they were having, maybe that was a sign it wasn’t meant to be.

His phone vibrates. Amara’s incredible, but JASON? That man is insane and I love his every action.

Kurt rolls his eyes, already tapping out a reply.

They’re sitting on a bench in Washington Square, and their knees are a hair’s breadth apart. Kurt’s telling a story about his job, about someone who was incompetent so Kurt had to step in and save the day, and Sebastian’s trying to listen, he is. Kurt is one of the few people that Sebastian knows who can really tell a good story - even the most mundane life events come alive in his words, the stakes always high, the twists always shocking.

But it’s hard to focus on the details of the story when Kurt is sitting so close, when his elbow is propped casually atop the back of the bench, his hand nearly brushing Sebastian’s shoulder as he gestures.

Sebastian wonders about the bounds of acceptable PDA in a friends with benefits situation. In a private space - within the confines of a hotel room, or Kurt’s apartment - it would be perfectly normal for him to rest a hand on Kurt’s thigh, or lean in against his body. Grabbing his hand and squeezing it, even bringing it to his lips, would be a routine gesture.

He’s seen Kurt naked dozens of times, done absolutely filthy things with him - but it would be weird to express some form of physical affection here, right? There was a bizarre inversion of typical procedure; if he leaned in close and mouthed at Kurt’s ear, whispered some indecorous suggestion, that would be reasonable within the definition of their relationship. If he did something entirely chaste, however, like intertwine their fingers, that would be some sort of violation.

But it’s Kurt, and he’s not only unjustly attractive, he’s also - delightful. Sebastian loves being near him. They’re in the same physical space so infrequently, it seems a waste to not spend every second possible touching each other. He wants to press his knee to Kurt’s, or toy with his fingers. The urge to reach out is hard to suppress.

It would complicate things, though. It would bring into question what they’re doing, invite some deeply awkward conversation about what their relationship is. It’s all bullshit - the definitions of romance and partnership and friendship and sexuality are all made up, so it shouldn’t matter whether he acts on his instincts here. But he knows it will matter, and he doesn’t want to rock the boat.

He shifts slightly, nodding along to Kurt’s story, so there’s a little more distance between them. He’ll keep his hands to himself until they’re no longer in public, until he can chalk it up to being horny. Kurt rolls his eyes as he explains his coworker’s actions, and Sebastian grins.

Kurt enters the bar, his heart thrumming in his throat as he looks around for Sebastian.

Sebastian has visited New York two or three times a year since moving, and out of those many instances, Kurt can only remember three where they didn’t end up having sex – because Sebastian was too busy for them to meet up, or Kurt himself was out of town or in the middle of a show that took up all of his time and energy.

He spots Sebastian at a table, in the process of removing his suit jacket. He doesn’t have a drink yet – he must have arrived just moments before Kurt. Kurt steels himself, and walks towards Sebastian.

They always have sex when they can because, besides the obvious fact of their mutual attraction, they’re both always single when Sebastian’s in town. Kurt asked Sebastian about it once, when they were comfortably tangled in his bedsheets. “Do you ever date anyone? Like, monogamously?”

Sebastian had shrugged, the movements of his shoulders jostling Kurt slightly. “Not really. I mean, I’ve had a few guys who I’ve seen regularly, and it’s become kind of an ongoing thing. Not just for sex, but going on dates, too. One of them asked to be exclusive eventually, and I told him I just wasn’t interested in that, so he broke it off.”

“And you weren’t upset about that?” Kurt asked.

“I mean, I didn’t love it,” Sebastian replied. “I would’ve liked to keep hanging out with him. But he wanted more than what I could give.”

Kurt, on the other hand, craved romance, commitment, stability. It had just never worked out for him in the long term, leaving him perpetually available whenever Sebastian was in town.

Until now, that is.

Sebastian grins when he notices Kurt, and Kurt greets him with a sort of side-hug, the corner of the table awkwardly in between them. Kurt sits down, facing Sebastian - his face so familiar after so many years, even though he sees it infrequently. Kurt thinks he’s gotten a haircut recently. He looks good. He always looks good.

“I’ll get drinks,” Sebastian says, but Kurt reaches out and grabs his wrist before he can step away from the table.

“Uh, Seb, wait,” he says. “I need to tell you something first.”

Sebastian sits back down, raising an eyebrow. “Okay,” he replies slowly.

Kurt bites the inside of his lip. “I have a boyfriend,” he says.

“Oh,” Sebastian blinks. “Congrats.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says. “Uh, thanks.” He glances down at his hands. “I just - I wanted to tell you upfront, in case that…changes whether you want to hang out tonight.”

He and Tomas have been dating for a couple months, now. He hadn’t said anything about it to Sebastian, because their sporadic text conversations rarely delved into big-life-event territory, and he felt like bringing it up would make it into A Thing, which he didn’t want. But then Sebastian had a trip to New York, and when he asked to meet up Kurt didn’t want to text him sure we can get drinks but I can’t have sex with you anymore. So instead he’d held off until this moment to reveal the truth.

“Kurt,” Sebastian says, sounding a little amused. “Do you think I’m gonna ditch you tonight just because you have a boyfriend now?”

Kurt shrugs. “I just felt like you should…I don’t know, that you shouldn’t spend the night with certain expectations while I know the whole time that sex is off the table.”

“It’s always been off the table,” Sebastian says. “I know how you feel about hard surfaces.”

Kurt laughs, unexpectedly. The joke should probably feel like something off-limits now, but it doesn’t. It loosens the anxiety in his chest a little.

Sebastian looks at him intently. “Look, Kurt, I’m not gonna say I’m not a little disappointed that I can’t hook up with you tonight. But you’re still my friend, and I never get to see you, so obviously I’m not going to abandon you. Now, what do you want to drink? A G&T?”

Kurt exhales. “A martini.”

Sebastian groans as he stands and mutters, “God, how are we so old already?”

Kurt watches as he walks to the bar, smiling to himself. They’ve been doing this weird, long-distance friends with benefits thing for a long time now, and a part of him had worried that this is what would break it. He wouldn’t give up his relationship with Tomas for anything, but he’d been sad at the prospect of losing whatever he had with Sebastian.

Knowing that the friends part of their relationship outweighs the benefits part fills him with a relief he didn’t know to expect. But he’s happy, and Sebastian’s here, and they’ll still have a good night catching up even if it ends completely innocently.

When Sebastian returns, he sets Kurt’s drink down in front of him and settles into his own seat. “All right,” he says, after sipping at his scotch. “Tell me all about the man who finally tied Kurt Hummel down.”

Kurt laughs, joy spilling out of him, and he obliges.

Kurt is measuring out almond extract when he hears his phone begin to chime, signaling the end of a timer.

“Can you turn that off?” he asks Tomas, not wanting to lose his focus on the icing he’s making. “I need to check the cookies.”

“Yeah,” Tomas replies, setting down the book he’d been reading. He takes a few steps to pick up Kurt’s phone and stop the alarm. “You have a new text, too, from Sebastian.”

Kurt stutters in his movements, nearly knocking the whole bottle of extract into the bowl. He takes a quick breath, chastising himself for panicking. There is literally nothing to panic about.

“Okay, thanks,” he says. He finishes stirring the icing, checking its consistency and then scooping up a tiny bit to taste it - perfect.

“Who’s Sebastian, again?” Tomas asks. “Is he a college friend?”

There’s nothing accusatory in his tone, only genuine curiosity. That’s been the joy of getting to know each other over the past several months, discovering each other’s lives and pasts with delight. Kurt learned about the complex web of drama between Tomas’s mother and her sisters, knows the names of his best friends from high school, heard about the neighbor who used to babysit him and then, years later, offered to sell him weed. In turn, he’s regaled Tomas with glee club stories and NYADA absurdity, talked endlessly about his dad, described the most vulnerable and challenging moments of growing up in Lima. They love to learn new things about each other.

“No, I met him after college,” Kurt says, turning around to face his boyfriend. “Just through mutual friends in New York. He moved away, though, he’s in Rhode Island now.”

“Cool,” Tomas says. He’s wearing a very cozy-looking sweater, and Kurt has the urge to bundle him up in a hug, hold him close. “Do you need to take the cookies out?”

“Yes!” Kurt exclaims, turning towards the oven.

It’s half an hour later, when they’re settled on the couch eating a few of the cookies, that Kurt musters the courage to bring it up again. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but he knows he needs to be honest with Tomas, he wants to be honest. “So, you know Sebastian?”

Tomas smiles. “Very vaguely.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Yeah, um. I just wanted to tell you that, we are just friends, but we used to hook up sometimes, when he was in town.”

“Oh,” Tomas says, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Okay.”

“It was totally casual, though,” Kurt insists. “When I saw him last I told him about you, so. He knows that’s over.”

Tomas blinks. “You’ve seen him recently?”

“A few weeks ago,” Kurt replies. Probably he should have told Tomas at the time, but seeing Sebastian in the first place had sort of blindsided him, and it just seemed simpler to deal with it on his own, to keep it all separate. “We don’t really talk that much. Like, the last time he texted me before I saw him,” he said, grabbing his phone and opening his messages to check, “was last August.” He turns the phone so Tomas can see the screen. He’s being transparent. In fact, he could let Tomas read his entire text history with Sebastian and it would probably be fine. Tomas might not even recognize the moments of flirtation between them - he communicates in such a different way. He’s so genuine and kind, he’d probably read Sebastian’s teasing and insults just as mean.

“Okay, okay,” Tomas says, pushing Kurt’s phone away from him. “It’s fine, hon. I appreciate you telling me. Seems like it’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says with a shrug. “Exactly.”

And that isn’t a lie, but it also doesn’t feel quite like the truth.

The red glow of Sebastian’s alarm clock shows a time just past 1am when he’s woken by the persistent buzzing of his phone. He blearily picks it up off the nightstand, and sees the name emblazoned across the screen: Kurt Hummel.

“What the fuck?” he whispers to his empty room. He and Kurt have spoken on the phone only a handful of times, almost always when Sebastian was in New York and they were making logistical plans that were just easier to do over the phone than by text. They’ve never called one another out of the blue, and certainly not at one in the morning on a Tuesday. Or, Wednesday, now.

Baffled and mildly concerned, Sebastian answers the call. “Hello?”

“Sebastian?” It’s Kurt’s voice, but there’s something slippery about it.

“Yeah,” Sebastian confirms.

“Hey, you like my body, right?”

Sebastian rolls onto his back. His eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out his ceiling. “Your body is great, Kurt.” Is this an invitation for phone sex? Kurt has to be drunk, right? “Are you okay?”

“And you like having sex with me,” Kurt goes on, ignoring the question. “I’m good at sex, right?”

Sebastian scrubs a hand over his face. “Kurt.”

“Sebastian,” he whines back.

Sebastian takes a deep breath. “I wouldn’t have been hooking up with you every time I’m in New York for the past six years or whatever if you weren’t really fucking good in bed.”

There’s a little pride in Kurt’s voice when he responds. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

Sebastian is suddenly annoyed - he knows now that his workday is going to suck, because he’s fully awake, and all for what? Kurt Hummel needs a little midnight ego boost? “Why did you call, Kurt?”

There’s a pause, and what sounds like a shaky breath. “Tomas broke up with me.”

Sebastian freezes, his frustration immediately giving way to guilt. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says softly. “Me too.”

Sebastian tries to remember how long they’d been together - a year, maybe? “Tonight?” Sebastian asks, surprised that Kurt would be so quick to tell him.

“No,” Kurt replies. “A week ago.”

He’s not accustomed to placating heartbroken people. “Well,” he manages. “Like I said, you’re a total sex god, so sounds like it’s his loss.”

Kurt laughs, and then sniffles. “I knew you’d be honest with me,” Kurt says, and something twists in Sebastian’s chest. “I just thought this was gonna be real. I thought it would last.”

“It did last,” Sebastian says softly. “For a while. Several thousand times longer than my most significant relationship.”

“Still not long enough, though.”

Sebastian doesn’t know what to say to that, and so it’s quiet for a bit. He can hear Kurt breathing over the line, and he wonders if Kurt can hear his own breaths. There’s something unbearably intimate about it.

“Were you asleep?” Kurt asks.

“Yes.”

“Were you dreaming?”

Sebastian closes his eyes. “I don’t remember.”

A beat. “I had a dream about you, the other night.”

He blinks, the ceiling above him the same as always. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Kurt replies, and his voice seems stronger now. “We were at Grand Central. Well - other people were there, too, and you weren’t there the whole time. I think you had a train to catch.”

“That sounds like me.”

Kurt snorts. “Yeah, it does.”

They keep talking about dreams - their recurring nightmares, their most elaborate dreams, their best sex dreams. Sebastian stays on the line until Kurt starts yawning, and finally says he needs to go to sleep.

“Thank you,” he says. “You shouldn’t have picked up.”

“I’m glad I did,” Sebastian replies, and he means it.

They meet in a coffee shop. It’s cramped, bustling, loud - it’s an evening in Manhattan. The table they sit at is so small that Sebastian keeps accidentally brushing against Kurt’s leg. It starts accidentally, at least.

Kurt looks good. He’s animated as they discuss their jobs, and television, and retell entertaining stories from their lives over the past few months. They don’t talk about dating, or about Kurt’s breakup. He doesn’t seem fragile, though. Maybe enough time has passed, or maybe Kurt just bounces back quickly. They’ve never acknowledged that late night call shortly after the breakup, but Sebastian knows Kurt remembers. He wasn’t that drunk or that tired.

Someone passes by them, coffee in hand, and jostles the table. The environment is chaotic, and the already-rushed meeting feels all the more constrained.

Sebastian’s in New York for less than forty-eight hours. He got in last night, and he’s leaving early tomorrow morning. He has dinner with a client tonight, at a steakhouse in midtown. Technically, all the meetings he had today could have been done over the phone, but his supervisor wanted him to go in person. Sebastian’s charm doesn’t translate as well in a conference call.

He texted Kurt when he knew he was coming, but he only has a tiny window of time to see him. A little over an hour, crammed in between work and dinner. Based on the client, he doesn’t think he’s going to get away from the meal early - and then there’s that flight in the morning.

It’s so easy, how he and Kurt fall back into the comfort of their friendship, the back-and-forth of their teasing conversation. Sebastian says something mean and Kurt smacks him on the arm. Sebastian puts all his willpower into not grabbing onto Kurt’s wrist when he pulls back.

He checks his watch. He has to leave in twenty minutes, that’s the absolute latest he can push this. He watches Kurt as he talks, the curve of his smile and the light in his eyes. Would he be up for a quickie in a cafe bathroom? He doesn’t seem the type. They’ve only ever had sex in private, but god, the idea of tugging Kurt down the hall, locking the door behind them, pressing him up against the wall and sinking to his knees…

Ten minutes. Have Kurt’s lips always looked so appealing? Sebastian tries to focus on the conversation. This is all he’s going to get for months. Kurt wouldn’t be offended if he just asked, would he? But fuck, he doesn’t have any condoms with him. Has he ever been so frustrated by a situation like this?

“I’m sorry,” he says, standing up, adjusting his slacks (do not get a boner before a work meeting, Smythe). “I really have to go.”

Kurt’s mouth twists to one side, resigned. “Yeah, I understand.”

They walk out together, and hug goodbye, and then Kurt’s gone.

Sebastian gets into a cab and recites the address the client gave him for the restaurant. New York seems to move past him too fast. He should have just been late to dinner, he should have tried something - but it’s too late now.

Excitement buzzes through Sebastian’s veins as he makes his way to meet Kurt. He’s done with work, and he’s taking the next day off, extending his trip for a day - on his own dime. Partially that’s so he can meet up with Devin and his girlfriend while he’s in the area, but he’s also hopeful it means he’ll have more time with Kurt. Maybe they can spend the night together and not have to rush off in the morning, sleep in and grab breakfast somewhere. He’s sure Kurt will have strong opinions about breakfast restaurants.

The bar they meet at is crowded, especially for a weeknight. Kurt comments pessimistically that it must have just been featured in a TimeOut article or something. They have to practically shout to be heard over the chatter, and Sebastian can tell that Kurt is tense, annoyed. Once they’re finishing their first drinks Sebastian says, “You wanna get out of here?” and Kurt happily agrees.

They step outside into the humid night air, damp but no longer unbearably warm now that the sun has gone down. The light of the streetlamps shines over them, casting dark shadows over Kurt’s features, making him look mysterious and imposing.

“You wanna brave another bar,” Sebastian asks, “or do you just wanna go back to my room?”

Kurt looks at him, and there seems to be something tight about his eyes. “Where’s your hotel?”

“It’s like a twenty-minute walk,” he replies. “We don’t have to.”

It’s not awkward between them, exactly, but there is something…uncertain. Sebastian’s not sure what the rules of this game are anymore.

“No, it’s fine,” Kurt says firmly. “We can go.”

So they walk to the hotel, and in the relative peace of the streets they can actually hold a conversation, picking up where they left off in the bar. Sebastian only had the one drink, but he can feel it, everything a little warm and buzzing, a little clumsier, a little quicker to laugh. He hasn’t been going to clubs as much as he used to, and clearly his alcohol tolerance reflects that.

Once they’re up in his room, they both sit on the edge of the bed - there’s nowhere else for two people to sit. They take their shoes off as they talk, and Sebastian undoes the top buttons of his dress shirt. Not as a come on, necessarily, just because it’s uncomfortable.

He watches the way Kurt’s eyes flicker down at his newly-revealed skin.

Okay, maybe it’s sort of a come on.

They seem to slide closer to each other as they talk, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. Kurt folds his leg underneath him and his knee rests against Sebastian’s thigh. Sebastian mixes up the words in his sentence, his tongue thick and his mind distracted, so Kurt teases him for it, making some joke about all those private school elocution classes gone to waste.

Sebastian leans in, tired of talking, so ready to cut to the chase. He pauses a centimeter from Kurt’s lips, still level-headed enough to know that he needs to give Kurt the chance to pull back if he doesn’t want this, if somehow Sebastian has completely misread all the signs leading up to this moment.

Kurt presses forward, closing the distance and kissing him viciously. It’s hard and intense and artless and so, so good. Sebastian lies back, pushed against the bed at Kurt’s urging. He gasps as Kurt sucks along his jaw and neck, scraping his teeth against his exposed collarbone.

When he pulls away to take off his own shirt, Kurt’s eyes are dark and full of fire.

They don’t talk much, during. They’re too desperate for anything more than rutting against each other, chasing friction with help from hands and lube until they tumble into a sated heap.

After catching breaths and half-hearted cleaning up, Kurt is lying back against the headboard. Sebastian has settled lower on the bed, his fingers tracing idle shapes against Kurt’s outer thigh.

“You know,” Kurt says, and Sebastian looks up at him. His hair is sweat-damp, skin pleasantly flushed. “After the last time we saw each other, and we didn’t have sex…” He glances away for a moment, shrugs. “I sort of thought this was over.”

Sebastian stills his hand, resting it on Kurt’s knee. “No, I just - I really didn’t have time. I thought I was clear about that.”

“Could have been an excuse,” Kurt says mildly.

Sebastian kisses Kurt’s leg, hair rough against his lips. “I don’t anticipate ever not wanting to have sex with you if that’s an option. If that changes, I’ll be upfront with you about it.”

Kurt smiles. “Okay, deal.”

The doorbell buzzes, and Kurt swears under his breath, his reflection showing his expression of frustration. He’s not ready to leave yet. Is Sebastian early, or did Kurt linger too long when picking his outfit?

He leaves the bathroom and walks over to the intercom. “Seb?” he says into it. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Yeah, sure you will,” Sebastian replies, clearly doubtful. “Just let me up, I can entertain myself while you finish primping.”

Annoyed - more so at the fact that Sebastian could see through him than at his tone - Kurt buzzes Sebastian in, and returns to his mirror to try rushing through the rest of his preparations. He feels a little off-kilter, thrown off after Sebastian’s text a few days ago, asking to meet this afternoon. It’s the middle of the day during the week, and Kurt’s grown accustomed to seeing Sebastian only late in the day, meeting up after he’s done with work.

A minute later there’s a knock at the door, and Kurt goes to open it.

Sebastian is wearing a black polo shirt and jeans, an easy smile on his face. It’s the most casual Kurt has seen him in years - typically when they’re in person together, Sebastian is either still in work clothes or completely undressed. This in-between stage is just another thing that feels unusual about today, although Kurt’s not sure if he and Sebastian have ever had a baseline for what’s ‘normal’ between them.

“I didn’t know I was inviting a frat boy into my home,” Kurt says in lieu of a greeting, even though Sebastian actually looks very, very good in the polo. “Are you playing hooky from work?”

Sebastian’s grin grows. “I’m not here for work, actually.”

Kurt leans his weight onto the doorframe and crosses his arms. “On vacation, then?”

“I’m actually here to look at apartments.”

Kurt blinks. “Apartments?”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Yeah.”

Kurt still isn’t sure if he understands. “Like, in New York?” he asks. “You’re moving back to New York?”

“Looks like it.”

Kurt stands up fully, and as he meets Sebastian’s eyes he feels the thrumming energy between them, the unexpected joy at this revelation. He bites his lip and shakes his head. “You know,” he says, a sardonic lilt to his voice, “I don’t know if this is gonna work. I’ve grown so used to seeing you in small doses. I might not like you if you’re around all the time.”

Sebastian schools his smile into a more serious expression. “You know I worried about the same thing. I just have this feeling that all of your endearing quirks are actually gonna be insufferable once I’m living in the same city.”

There’s something light expanding in Kurt’s chest as he reasons, “Well, it’s a big place, New York. We might never run into each other.”

Sebastian nods. “Great point. You wanna just keep meeting every five months or so?”

“No, you idiot,” Kurt says, dropping the game. No teasing or innuendo, no genuine feelings couched in jokes or insults. He reaches out to grab Sebastian by the elbow and pull him into the apartment. “I want to see you all the fucking time.”

“This is so boring,” Sebastian says, hovering behind Kurt as he looks at a display of local honey.

“You didn’t have to come,” Kurt says mildly. “You could have stayed in bed when I left.”

The farmer’s market around them is bustling, couples pushing strollers, people walking dogs or examining vegetables to put in their tote bags. It seems aggressively sunny outside, and Sebastian wishes he’d thought to bring his sunglasses. “You bribed me,” he tells Kurt, holding up his nearly-empty cup from the coffee shop they’d stopped at on the way, his favorite place near Kurt’s apartment.

“I could have brought you something back,” Kurt replies, moving down the table to look at the baked goods for sale.

Sebastian scoffs. “Cold, hour-old espresso? No thanks.”

Kurt turns to face him and cups Sebastian’s jaw, but his expression makes it clear that the gesture is more warning than affection. “Then be glad about your fancy coffee and stop bitching.”

It’s probably not healthy that Kurt making threats in a very polite tone of voice sends a thrill down Sebastian’s spine, but he revels in it all the same. He gives Kurt a sarcastic smile, which is apparently satisfactory, as Kurt pulls away and continues walking down the path. They pass booths selling various items, and Sebastian sips on the last of his coffee while Kurt chatters about what he plans on making for dinner.

Now that he lives in New York again, Sebastian has a smaller office and a more cramped apartment. He gave up his car, relying instead on the disgusting and inconsistent labyrinth of the MTA or the cab drivers battling against New York traffic. The city is loud and crowded and inconvenient.

He loves being back.

He finds he doesn’t miss Providence much, now that he’s settled in, even though he lived there for longer than he ever lived in New York before. He made some friends there, coworkers and neighbors and people who frequented the queer bars, but he doesn’t feel terrible leaving them behind. He’s generally been content to have people drift in and out of his life, to know people in certain contexts and then let them go when the time calls for it. He’s not used to long-standing connections with other people.

Kurt finds a fruit stand and pores over the berries, picking out a basket to take home. He offers it to Sebastian as they walk, and he takes a few blackberries to pop into his mouth, a burst of sweet flavor.

This isn’t what he imagined for himself, walking through stalls selling organic produce and handmade soaps on a Saturday morning. If the Sebastian from ten years ago could see him now, he might be completely baffled. Sebastian’s confused about it himself, sometimes. But despite all the drawbacks, he doesn’t regret returning to New York. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, to get tired of this life and want to find something new, to return to the more unpredictable or chaotic habits of his past. But so far, even the boring parts are worth it.

They turn a corner into a more crowded area, having to weave carefully through bystanders. Sebastian reaches out and takes Kurt’s hand in his, holding firmly, to keep him by his side.

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