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His head feels inflated, more than it already is usually, temples throbbing, body tingling in and out of numbness, warm and drowsy on the inside. His tongue feels like wet cotton in his mouth, words heavy as they roll off it, drip down his chest to his feet. The night seems to run slow like honey. He feels somewhat invincible, immortal, completely untouchable as he rides the high like a dizzy ferris wheel, the buzzing in his head like a neon sign. Lorenzo feeds him drinks like Ness feeds him passes. Used to beer and the occasional vodka, the cocktails are too sweet, rushing to his head incredibly quickly. If he stands, he fears he’ll fall over, or puke, so he takes the next drink Lorenzo pushes toward him, wraps his lips around the straw, watches Lorenzo watching him. As dizzy and drunk as he feels, he tries to keep himself composed. Lorenzo hasn’t stopped smoking all night, breathing tar and tobacco like it’s his oxygen.
The club is some unknown hole-in-the-wall that Kaiser would never be caught stepping foot into during the day. The people here know of him; keep stealing glances at both him and Lorenzo, but say nothing to either of them. He’s grateful for it. When Lorenzo had offered to hang out, catch up, it’s been sooo long, Micha, he turned him down. Wanted to go back to the airport, take a benzo nap on the way home, and pretend the last few months had never happened. Like it was all just a bad dream.
Lorenzo doesn’t give up that easily, though. And Kaiser finds himself at the bar, too drunk to really enjoy himself but definitely drunk enough to feel good. The floor is sticky under his feet, and the entire place reeks of musty and stale alcohol. Lorenzo fits right in, looking like the picture perfect scum he once was. Golden teeth flash in the depressed yellow bar light, eyes shining. Kaiser tries not to think about it. If he does, he’ll recall years ago, how those teeth feel on his skin, cold and hard, and then his mind will drag him into an uzumaki of deranged thoughts about Don Fucking Lorenzo. Why did it have to be him who knew how to make Kaiser do things he hated doing? Why did it have to be him, who understood him without words, like they’d known each other forever? Why, why, why? Kaiser hasn’t been out in a while anyway, he’s become somewhat of a recluse, yet there’s some kind of compulsion that overtakes him when Lorenzo asks him out.
Just before they’d gotten out of the cab Lorenzo hired, not without boasting about being a gentleman and paying a generous tip, he’d offered Kaiser a pill resting in the palm of his hand. “Do you want it?” He asked. Kaiser, feigning nonchalance and coolness, despite feeling like a bundle of nerves, nodded, and Lorenzo had placed the ecstasy tentatively on his tongue like a nurse unplugging the life support machine. Lorenzo takes two at once because that’s what he does. Swallows them and smiles. Pills to sleep, pills to dream, pills lodged in the back of his throat like the barrel of a gun.
Now, he’s sitting slouched in a barstool, grinning wildly and stupidly at all of Lorenzo’s terrible jokes and obvious attempts at getting into his pants. It’s amusing to listen to, but it gets tiring fast. Kaiser never actually rejected him, because Lorenzo never actually asked. They’ve only gotten so far until one of them passes out or backs off. He implies it, asks Ness what Kaiser’s like, if he’s as rough in bed as people say he is, but never makes a proper move to find the answer for himself. Briefly, Kaiser wonders if he’s a virgin, but rules it out quickly. Lorenzo spent more time on the streets than he ever did under a roof. There’s probably a lot of things he’s done just to survive. It’s not like Kaiser’s against the idea of sleeping with him, anyway. He just thinks it’s entertaining, the way Lorenzo so obviously wants him. Kaiser likes being wanted, it makes him feel powerful. He likes being needed even more.
Lorenzo turns to him some minutes later, mouth curling up into a smirk. His dark eyeshadow is all smudged, giving him two black eyes. It’s not a bad look on him. “Want another?” Kaiser feels good, ecstatic, like there’s electricity running through his veins, so he agrees. In the dim light, he realises Lorenzo isn’t just a zombie, but a spirit. The kind that knocks over cups when he’s bored, drifting through walls, refusing to die. This time, Lorenzo hands it to him, but before he can take it, places it on his own tongue.
“Come an’ get it,” he slurs, words muffled with his tongue halfway out. Fuck it, Kaiser thinks, and leans forward, kissing him, slips his tongue inside. Lorenzo’s mouth is warm, but the metal piercing beneath his tongue is cold, sending a shiver down Kaiser’s spine. He leans into the touch, eager for more, starved for it.
Lorenzo’s arm snakes around his waist, pulling him closer. Kaiser swallows the pill with a mix of their saliva, it tastes of chemicals and cocktails. When Lorenzo lets him go, he feels hot all over, like he’s burning up. It’s probably the alcohol, but there’s a part of him that knows it isn’t, can’t shift the blame. “Do that again,” he whispers, under his breath. Doesn’t care there are people watching anymore, fuck them and their phone cameras. At least he looks good. He’s wearing his signature red eyeliner and a tight shirt that accentuates all of his muscles, hair pulled back in a loose bun to show off his tattoo. And Lorenzo doesn’t look half-bad himself.
“Kiss you?” Lorenzo leans forward, fingers under Kaiser’s chin, tapping a small rhythm. His hands are like leather in the sun, rough and worn and scorching hot.
“Touch me,” he breathes, because he doesn't care if he’s kissed or not. He’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have someone else’s touch in his veins again. Everything is so heightened, so intense: the touch, the kiss, the buzzing in his head. Lorenzo obliges happily, slender fingers reaching out to caress the side of his ribcage, lips slotting together. They’re close enough in proximity to—
Lorenzo grabs his wrists before Kaiser can unfasten his belt properly. “Mi Angeli,” he whispers, feigning shock, like this wasn’t exactly what he brought Kaiser to the club for, “Not here.”
He lets himself be dragged out of the club by Lorenzo, laughter and cheering and camera flashes trailing behind them. The cold night air hits him like a truck, making his nose run, eyes sting. He realises quickly he can’t stand without Lorenzo’s arms supporting him, so he throws an arm over his shoulder, the two of them staggering along the pavement like a bad choreography. He hears Lorenzo mutter something, hears a lighter flick. Kaiser leans against the wall of an old building, chest heaving.
“Stop fucking around,” he mutters, when Lorenzo tilts his head back and blows out a string of smoke rings into the night air. “Get over here.”
“You forget,” Lorenzo places the cigarette between his teeth, ash falling as he talks, “This is my city. I get to be in charge.” Kaiser can find his way around Italy easily — it can’t be that hard. But in this state, he’s not sure he can do anything at all until Lorenzo touches him again. He craves it. Kaiser reaches out and grabs the corner of his shirt, pulling him into his chest.
For someone so skinny, Lorenzo’s still strong, can lift Kaiser up against the wall, high enough for his ass to be pressed against the front of Lorenzo’s jeans, where he can feel the bulge of his cock through the denim already. There’s too many layers between them, it’s driving him crazy.
“Gonna fuck me?” Kaiser asks, masking the desperation in his voice with a teasing lilt.
“You’ll feel it tomorrow,” Lorenzo says, as if he’s trying to care. The cigarette in his mouth moves as he speaks, and Kaiser takes it, places it between his own lips, inhales.
Kaiser deadpans, “Maybe I want to.” Feel something, feel anything, goes unsaid.
With a raised eyebrow and half a smile, Lorenzo laughs. “Since when does Michael Kaiser want to be fucked in some alleyway for the world to see? I knew you liked attention, but this much?”
“Since when does Don Lorenzo not want to fuck me?” He snaps back, harsher than expected, blowing smoke into his face, but Lorenzo only laughs louder, maniacal.
“If you’re a good boy, I’ll give you what you want,” Lorenzo says, thumb hooking in his lower lip. Kaiser’s eyes flutter shut. He should hate it, he should, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. They’re rivals, not friends, and they definitely don’t do this, but he can’t. Lorenzo’s words make every hair on his body stand straight. Or is it the molly? Whatever, it doesn’t matter — Kaiser can be good if it means he gets what he wants. And he always gets what he wants.
The ride is not far; Lorenzo dislikes large, expensive homes, sees no use for so much space. They both come from nothing, but they’re completely opposite in what they want. Lorenzo needs other people, and Kaiser needs no one. Lorenzo is the loyal lover, and Kaiser is the lonely beloved. Kaiser lets his arm dangle out the window, watching the lights and stars twinkle. Lorenzo’s hand rests on his thigh, teasingly running his hand up and down. The rest of the cars are going nowhere fast and Kaiser’s heading down, down, down.
His head spins as Lorenzo throws him down on the bed with ease, stifles a gasp when his hands touch his skin. All the lights are off, and Kaiser struggles to get out of his clothes. His muscles feel dead. It’s almost blissful to be so incapable of functioning, so he lets Lorenzo do it for him. His fingers brush Kaiser’s skin as he peels his shirt off, works on his jeans until they’re both bare. Despite his etiquette, or rather, his lack of, in public spaces, Lorenzo seems to have no shame about how he treats his partners, even if they’re worth a few hundred million euros. Kaiser’s used to being devoured, but Ness’ teeth are blunt, his nails are clipped. Lorenzo’s a stray dog, feral and untameable. Animalistic.
Carelessly, Lorenzo crashes his lips back into Kaiser’s. Rough and needy, shoving his tongue into Kaiser’s mouth, licking at the backs of his teeth. He tastes like cigarette smoke and booze, it’s fucking intoxicating and he can’t get enough of it, wants more, needs more, addicted to it, to him. Kaiser wants to beg him to take control, so he can let go, but he doesn’t need to. Lorenzo said it himself. This is his home, so he gets to call the shots.
“Turn over,” Lorenzo orders, sharp hip bones digging into his flesh, grinding himself against Kaiser’s ass, pushing him down into the stained mattress. Kaiser arches his back, pushes back on Lorenzo. He can hear the headlines: Is this what Germany’s young self-proclaimed emperor has become? A drug-dependent whore? Lorenzo’s thumb pushes at his rim, wet with saliva, and he thinks the headlines aren’t too far off. “Condom,” Kaiser mumbles into the pillow. At least future Kaiser will thank him tomorrow for being coherent enough to be safe, if nothing else.
“Already had one on.” It takes him a moment to understand, and by the time he does, Lorenzo pushes his thumb inside his hole.
“You’re a fucking animal,” he gasps out, making a face into the sheets, one that he’s glad Lorenzo can’t see. “Hurry up, then.”
“Already begging,” Lorenzo clicks his tongue. “But I’m the animal.” Kaiser groans, out of pleasure and pain and irritation that Lorenzo is still not fucking him, hangs his head in disappointment. Like kicking a horse to make it run, Lorenzo caresses the curve of his hips, smacks him hard. Kaiser’s stomach lurches like he’s going to be sick, whines brokenly.
“Okay, okay,” He’s saying, “I get it, I got you.”
Lorenzo finally removes his fingers from Kaiser, doesn’t ask if he’s ready before slamming into him in one go, right to the hilt, burying himself inside. If he hadn't lifted Kaiser from the waist and pressed his back to his chest, Kaiser would have screamed. Or puked. Maybe both. His knees feel weak, so he leans back against Lorenzo’s chest. It hurts a little, but it feels so good to be stretched around Lorenzo, no thoughts in his brain other than the pet names Lorenzo keeps murmuring into his ear. Lorenzo’s fingertips send static through his skin, right to the core where it explodes like lightning. They’re both drunk and high and it’s hard to find a rhythm: Kaiser’s so desperate he’s trying to fuck himself on Lorenzo, but the other man seems to be enjoying teasing him just fine.
He can feel Lorenzo’s mouth on the shell of his ear, hot breaths with every stifled moan. Lorenzo’s teeth come down on his tattoo, gold against sapphire, where his skin is most sensitive and Kaiser’s mind blanks, all coherent thoughts melting away into the pink mush-land that’s now his brain, and all he can do is let out a pathetic gurgle from the back of his throat as he comes, cock twitching as it lands on the sheets beneath them. “Enzo,” He breathes, “I—”
“You know the good thing about ecstasy?” Lorenzo whispers, “You can go all night.”
Swiftly, as though Kaiser weighs nothing, Lorenzo changes their positions, Kaiser on his back, heels above the spirit’s head. Somehow Lorenzo always manages to make Kaiser feel like nothing. Nothingness consumes them both because that’s all they’ve ever been. No-one, nowhere, nothing. The world Kaiser lives in is empty, never to be fulfilled. Born from nothing, he’ll die from nothing. Which Kaiser thinks is okay, he can handle being nothing for tonight, if only to escape his own mind.
Somewhere between the messy sex and Lorenzo lighting another cigarette halfway through and Kaiser spilling grey goose on the bedsheets, Lorenzo’s discarded the condom in favour for coming on Kaiser’s stomach, his abs covered in pearly-white streaks. Lorenzo leans forward, drags his tongue through the mess, silver piercing glinting in the flashes of moonlight. Kaiser doesn’t have the energy to insult him, so he definitely doesn’t have the energy to stop Lorenzo from spitting it down his throat. Lorenzo’s hand wraps around his neck, thumb pushing down. “Swallow, dolcezza.” He instructs, and Kaiser does.
He keeps face pressed into the pillows so that Lorenzo cannot see how blank his expression is, how dead his eyes are, hands gripping the thin sheets beneath them. Lorenzo’s mumbling something about heaven from above him, behind him, all around him. And then he pulls out and it’s back to empty, back to nothing, back to that sinking feeling in his stomach. Break the pill in half, place it under your tongue, wash it down with alcohol. It slides down inside of him like a butter river of dope, and regret, the regret and the guilt always come after but you tell yourself change can always come after too.
Kaiser wakes to the smell of cigarette smoke, the feeling of fingers raking through his hair, untangling all the knots. He scrunches up his nose in disgust. “God, that stinks.”
“You liked it last night,” Lorenzo replies, mindlessly. At some point in the night, he must’ve turned over the other side of the bed, because he definitely doesn’t remember falling asleep on Lorenzo’s chest.
“What?” He asks, voice cracking. Then, “The sunlight is so fucking bright.” He snaps. Lorenzo reaches up, pulls the blinds closed.
“Relax,” he says, his voice a low rasp. There’s no ulterior motive to it, just.. relax. “You’re coming down. You always get so depressed afterwards.” No wonder. Every muscle in his body aches, his head is killing him, feels like he could sleep forever. Like a dead person imitating a live one. “Stimulants fuck me.” He mumbles, lying back down. He closes his eyes, hears a phone ring. Lorenzo ignores it, and then looks at him, guiltily.
“What now?”
“Call your mother and tell her you made it, you’re all anyone’s talking about.” He drawls. Kaiser’s eyes widen, and he snatches the phone from Lorenzo’s hands, swiping into the news tab. He wasn’t lying. It’s the first headline about Kaiser in months that isn’t just a mere speculation whether he’s on cocaine in that one interview or is he drunk during this match? He can practically feel the penetrating eyes of the world through the screen, whispering under their breaths; I heard he went to rehab. Well, I heard he tried to kill himself. With the last shred of pride he has managed to hold onto, he won’t give them any satisfaction of bothering to even deny the rumours, let alone acknowledge them. If he saw God, it was his business alone.
You can’t even see his face in the photos that have been plastered everywhere, just that he’s tongue deep in Don Lorenzo’s mouth outside of a cheap nightclub like any other two-bit whore Lorenzo brings around. It’s the tattoo that gives him away. He has it around Lorenzo’s back, thorns wrapped around his neck, crown in his hair. Stupid fucking thing. A spur of the moment decision he’ll regret forever.
Not only that, but there’s also a swarm of missed calls from his friends, his teammates, his ex-teammates, his manager, fucking random interviewers who want him to do a one-on-one. They’re like maggots to a carrion, and every time he deletes one, another appears. He turns off his phone, pulls the blanket over his head and wishes hard that this didn’t really happen. Not that he regrets Lorenzo, just— himself.
It’s not really a surprise, though. He’s garnered more fans — and haters — from the articles published about him than anything else. Thick bold headlines that read rehab, coupled with photos of him stumbling in and out of expensive cars, powder on his nose, pupils like eclipse moons. Public intoxication, sexually reckless and careless, known for sleeping with many in one night, driving under the influence. A couple stints in rehab and a hefty fine or two. Turns out, when you’re in the middle of a bout of self destruction, you are both the moth and the flame and people are drawn to you, not because they care, but because it’s fun. It’s fun to watch someone else spiral and ruin themself, filling his body with poison at the expense of the media. They like a show, and he knows how to give it.
Lorenzo pulls the blanket away from his face, leaning down. “You know, you always get pissy after a binge.” Too fucking right, Kaiser thinks. It’s an endless cycle. He’s miserable and angry and he gets high and stays in the clouds for a week and then he crashes, depressed again.
His stomach lurches. He can taste last night in the back of his throat, rot and decay and nicotine staining his tongue and teeth and coating the back of his mouth in a layer of thick black tar, like the charcoal solution they give you when you overdose. “You got anything on you?” He asks, letting himself rest on Lorenzo’s chest. Just for a while.
“You got an addiction,” Lorenzo says, and Kaiser huffs a laugh. Hypocritical as usual, he continues, “No wonder you’re so fucked up. How d’ya think Ness feels knowing you’re off your face half the time?” He doesn’t mind, Kaiser thinks, we don’t love each other. Whatever they were - whatever they could’ve been - is no longer. That ship has long since sailed. Sometimes, he lies so convincingly, he starts to believe it. And then he gets the lies confused with reality, with dreams and nightmares, with his imagination. There’s a fading bruise on his jawline from the last time he’d seen Ness. How long was that, even? Yesterday? A week? He doesn’t remember. There’s a lot he doesn’t remember. Lying here in Lorenzo’s bed, he doesn’t even remember why he quit soccer in the first place. Everything seems so utterly pointless.
“He doesn’t care,” Kaiser says, dully.
“He strikes me as very usable, but not very useful.” Kaiser feels like he doesn’t know Ness at all, like he doesn’t know Lorenzo or Sae, like he doesn’t know himself. Even with Lorenzo’s body against his, and Ness waiting for him back home, he’s still alone. “It’ll fall apart soon, you know. Are you going to leave first?”
Lorenzo leans over to the bedside, busying himself rummaging through the drawers and eventually finding an expired ID card and a grinder.
Kaiser doesn’t know. He used to think he understood, that he had all the answers, but he doesn’t, and he stopped wanting to. Kaiser is not a person who can be alone. He needs constant attention, constant company, someone beside him at all times. It hurts to breathe when he’s alone, the invisible rope around his neck tightening, tightening, tightening. He’s not good alone, but he’s worse with other people.
Throughout his suspension and his impulsive quit and his resignation letter that read more like a suicide note, he’s become deeply attached to Ness. The Kaiser of the past would have never relied on anyone this much. “I don’t know. Where would I go?”
“Wherever you want. You’re still an emperor. Take back your reign.” Lorenzo grins, lanky arm making its way around Kaiser’s waist, fingers trailing down to his hips. “Until then, you can serve me.”
“There’s more to life than you can snort or crush,” Lorenzo tells him.
“You’re right,” he says, sitting up, “Do you want to fuck again?” Lorenzo grins back at him.
There’s no clothes to take off, Kaiser having passed out somewhere between the third or the fifth round and Lorenzo clearly hadn’t bothered with cleaning either of them up. The sheets are still damp with alcohol and come and God knows what else. Better not to think about it. “Aw, Micha, you’re still so wet.” Lorenzo says, reaching around to grope at his behind. “If I had have known, I might’ve fucked you while you were asleep. Oh, well, there’s always later, I guess.”
“You’re disgusting.” He says, not totally opposed to the idea, climbing over Lorenzo and picking up the plastic straw from the table and pressing his finger to the side of his nose, tapping it, head tilting back. The chemical drip is comforting, familiar, and despite the powder stuck halfway up his nose, he feels like he can breathe again.