Chapter Text
The bartender wiped down the counter with a damp rag, eyeing the kid slumped over the sticky wood like he was deciding whether to cut him off or call an ambulance. Neteyam's fingers curled loosely around his fourth—fifth?—glass of something amber and lethal, his braids slipping over his shoulder as his head lolled to the side. A neon sign flickered above him, casting his sharp cheekbones in sickly pink light.
"You gonna puke?" the bartender asked, not unkindly.
Neteyam blinked up at him, slow as a drunk lizard. "No," he lied, and immediately regretted speaking when the room tilted. His phone buzzed against his thigh for the twelfth time in an hour. He didn’t need to look to know it was Aonung.
Across the bar, Tarsem nursed a beer, watching him with the detached curiosity of someone who hadn’t decided yet if this was a mess worth stepping into. He was older, broad-shouldered in a way that made Neteyam feel unfairly young, his tattoos peeking out from under rolled sleeves. Neteyam had seen him around campus—everyone had—but tonight, Tarsem’s usual smirk was replaced with something quieter.
"You look like someone pissed in your drink," Tarsem said, sliding onto the stool beside him.
Neteyam exhaled through his nose, the sharp scent of cheap whiskey clinging to his upper lip. "Someone might as well have," he muttered, squinting at the blurred edges of Tarsem's face. He chuckled, low and easy, and Neteyam hated how the sound curled around his ribs like a warm hand.
"Breakup?" Tarsem asked, swirling his beer.
Neteyam's fingers tightened around his glass. "Not yet." He didn’t mean to say it, but the alcohol had sanded down his usual restraint. Aonung’s texts had devolved from angry to pleading somewhere around drink three, and now they sat heavy in his pocket like a bruise.
Tarsem hummed, eyes flicking over Neteyam’s slumped posture. "Man’s an idiot if he’s letting you drink alone."
Neteyam barked a laugh, bitter. "Yeah, well. He thinks I’m the idiot." The words tasted like ash. Aonung’s voice from their fight echoed in his skull—'You never listen, you never fucking—'
The bartender vanished like a ghost when Tarsem raised two fingers for another round—whiskey for Neteyam, something clear and brutal for himself. Neteyam watched the liquid slosh against the glass, the ice cubes catching the neon glow like tiny diamonds. He should’ve stopped. He didn’t.
“Tell me something,” Tarsem said, nudging Neteyam’s shoulder with his own. His voice was rough but not unkind, like gravel under bare feet. “What’s so bad that you’re drowning in this piss-water instead of fixing it?”
Neteyam snorted. “You sound like him.” The whiskey burned going down, but the warmth pooling in his stomach was worth it. “Always thinks everything can be fixed.”
Tarsem’s eyebrow arched. “Can’t it?”
Neteyam’s phone buzzed again, vibrating against the bar with a sound like angry bees. He flipped it face-down without looking. “Not this,” he muttered. “Not when he—” The words tangled in his throat. Aonung’s accusations from earlier still rang in his ears: 'You don’t care, you never fucking care—'
Tarsem watched Neteyam’s fingers tremble around the whiskey glass, the ice inside clinking softly like a taunt. “Not when he what?” he prodded, voice dipping lower. Neteyam exhaled sharply, his breath smelling like regret and cheap liquor.
“Not when he looks at me like I’m already gone,” Neteyam finally admitted, the words slipping out like a confession. He hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t meant to give Aonung’s anger shape outside his own head—but the alcohol had eroded his usual defenses. Tarsem’s gaze lingered on him, assessing, before he took a slow sip of his drink.
“Sounds like he’s the one who’s scared,” Tarsem mused, rolling the glass between his palms. Neteyam frowned, his brows knitting together. Scared? Aonung? The guy who punched lockers when he was pissed and laughed in the face of anyone who called him out? Tarsem shrugged, as if reading his disbelief. “People lash out when they’re afraid of losing something. Or someone.”
Neteyam’s throat tightened. He remembered the way Aonung’s voice had cracked earlier—'You’re gonna leave, aren’t you?'—before the anger swallowed it whole. He opened his mouth to argue, but Tarsem cut him off with a chuckle. “You’re thinking too hard.” He reached over, flicking Neteyam’s forehead with a calloused finger. “Drink or talk. Pick one.”
Neteyam chose the drink. The next round went down smoother, the burn dulled by the numbness spreading through his limbs. He wasn’t sure when Tarsem’s arm ended up slung over the back of his stool, or when he’d started leaning into the warmth of it, but the bar’s chatter had faded into a distant hum.
The neon buzz of the bar blurred into streaks of color as Neteyam tilted his head back, laughing at something Tarsem said—though he couldn’t remember what. His ribs ached with the effort, his braids slipping loose over his shoulders. Tarsem’s hand lingered on the back of his stool, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and Neteyam didn’t pull away. The whiskey had sanded down the edges of his guilt, leaving only a dull throb where Aonung’s texts still burned in his pocket.
"You’re cute when you’re wasted," Tarsem murmured, his breath warm against Neteyam’s ear. Neteyam blinked up at him, his vision swimming. Cute? Aonung never called him cute. 'Stubborn', maybe. 'Infuriating'. But never cute. The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and sudden, and he reached for his glass again, only to find it empty. Tarsem smirked, sliding his own drink toward him. "Slow down, tiger. You’ll hate yourself tomorrow."
Neteyam snorted. "Already do." The words slipped out before he could catch them, raw and unguarded. Tarsem’s smirk faltered for a second, something flickering behind his dark eyes—something that looked almost like understanding. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Neteyam’s ear.
"Let me take your mind off it," he murmured, and Neteyam’s breath hitched. The bar tilted around him, the noise fading into a distant roar. He should’ve said no. Should’ve pushed Tarsem away, should’ve stumbled out into the night and called Aonung—'I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—' But the whiskey was a warm weight in his veins, and Tarsem’s hands were steady where Aonung’s had been shaking with rage earlier.
Tarsem lean in closer, his breath warm against Neteyam’s lips—whiskey and mint, the contrast sharp against his own tongue still thick with cheap liquor. Neteyam hesitated, his fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans. This was wrong. Aonung’s face flashed behind his eyelids—the way his jaw clenched when he was angry, the way his voice cracked when he was hurt. But the alcohol was a thick, syrupy weight in his veins, pressing down on his conscience until it was little more than a whisper.
The kiss was nothing like Aonung’s. Tarsem’s mouth was firm, deliberate—confident in a way that should’ve been intoxicating but instead made Neteyam’s stomach twist. Aonung kissed like he fought: messy, hungry, all teeth and desperation, like he was trying to carve himself into Neteyam’s skin before someone else could. Tarsem’s lips were smooth, practiced, and Neteyam hated how easily his body responded, how his fingers curled into Tarsem’s shirt without thinking.
He should’ve pulled away. Should’ve shoved him off, laughed it off as drunken nonsense. But the whiskey had turned his limbs to liquid, and the warmth of Tarsem’s palm against his jaw anchored him in a way that felt perversely steady. Neteyam let his eyes flutter shut, let himself sink into the kiss for one shameful second. The difference was jarring. Wrong.
A noise escaped his throat—half protest, half surrender—and Tarsem took it as encouragement, his hand sliding into Neteyam’s braids with a possessiveness that made his pulse stutter. For a dizzying moment, Neteyam forgot why this was a bad idea. Forgot the fight, forgot the texts burning in his pocket, forgot the way Aonung’s voice had cracked when he’d hissed 'You don’t love me enough to stay'. Then Tarsem bit down on his lower lip, sharp enough to sting, and the pain jolted him back to reality.
Neteyam wrenched back, his breath ragged. “Wait—”
Tarsem’s smirk was infuriatingly unbothered. “Second thoughts Darling?” His thumb brushed Neteyam’s bottom lip, smearing the wetness there.
Neteyam's tongue felt thick, too heavy for his mouth when he tried to form the word 'no'. It lodged in his throat like a stone, His head spun—not just from the alcohol, but from the dizzying wrongness of it all. 'Aonung wouldn’t—' But Aonung wasn’t here. Aonung was probably pacing their apartment, fists clenched, throat raw from shouting into voicemails Neteyam hadn’t listened to. The thought should’ve sobered him. It didn’t.
Tarsem’s fingers tightened in his braids, tilting his head back just enough to expose the line of his throat. "You think too much," he murmured against Neteyam’s skin, his breath hot and damp. Neteyam shuddered, his stomach lurching—not from disgust, but from the terrifying ease with which his body responded. His pulse jumped under Tarsem’s lips, traitorous and eager. 'This isn’t—' But the protest died before it could fully form, smothered by the weight of his own drunken exhaustion and the way Tarsem’s teeth scraped over his collarbone.
The bar’s neon lights blurred into streaks of color behind his eyelids when he squeezed them shut. Someone laughed nearby, the sound tinny and distant, but Neteyam couldn’t tell if it was real or just the whiskey playing tricks. Tarsem’s mouth was insistent, his hands sure where Aonung’s always hesitated—like he was afraid Neteyam would shatter if he held on too tight. The irony wasn’t lost on him. 'Aonung’s the one who—' But the thought unraveled when Tarsem’s knee nudged between his thighs, the pressure sharp enough to punch a gasp from his lungs.
"See?" Tarsem whispered, dragging his lips along the shell of Neteyam’s ear. "Better than thinking."
Neteyam wanted to argue. Wanted to shove him away, to spit out something biting and clever that would wipe that smug smirk off Tarsem’s face. But his limbs were leaden, his thoughts sluggish, and the heat pooling low in his stomach was too insistent to ignore. His fingers twitched against Tarsem’s chest—whether to push or pull, he wasn’t sure—but Tarsem took it as invitation, his hands sliding down to grip Neteyam’s hips with a possessiveness that sent a jolt through him.
“Come on,” Tarsem murmured, nudging Neteyam’s chin up with his knuckles. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with something Neteyam couldn’t name. “Let’s get out of here.”
Neteyam’s fingers fumbled against the chipped paint of the doorframe as Tarsem steered him into the dim-lit backroom—some storage space turned makeshift bedroom with a mattress shoved against exposed brick. The air smelled like stale beer and industrial cleaner, the kind of place people stumbled into when they didn’t want to be seen leaving together. His knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he swayed, the whiskey turning the room into a slow-tilting carousel. Tarsem’s hands were warm on his waist, grounding in a way that felt like betrayal.
"You good?" Tarsem asked, his voice low, thumb tracing the ridge of Neteyam’s hipbone through his jeans. Neteyam nodded, though the motion made his head spin. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t let Tarsem’s mouth find the hollow of his throat, shouldn’t arch into the touch like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was wrong. But the heat of Tarsem’s palms through his shirt was a distraction he was too weak to refuse.
The mattress creaked as Tarsem pushed him down, his weight settling over Neteyam’s thighs with an ease that made his breath catch. Aonung never pinned him like this—always left space between them, like he was afraid Neteyam would bolt if he held on too tight. Tarsem didn’t hesitate. His fingers twisted in Neteyam’s braids, tilting his head back to expose the column of his throat, and Neteyam’s pulse jumped under his lips.
"You’re prettier when you’re quiet," Tarsem murmured against his skin, teeth scraping the tendon behind Neteyam’s ear. The words should’ve been a slap—Aonung hated when Neteyam clammed up during fights—but they slithered under his skin instead, warm and syrupy like the whiskey still humming in his veins. Neteyam’s breath hitched when Tarsem’s palm slid, callouses dragging over his ribs in a way that made his stomach clench.
"Ah—"
The sound slipped out before he could bite it back, high and embarrassingly broken. Tarsem chuckled, the vibration buzzing against Neteyam’s throat. "That’s it." His fingers twisted in Neteyam’s braids, tugging just enough to make his scalp sting. "Let me hear you." The command was rough, but Neteyam’s body obeyed before his brain could protest, a shuddering "Nghh—" spilling from his lips as Tarsem’s knee pressed harder between his thighs. The friction was brutal—deliberate—and Neteyam’s hips jerked forward on instinct, chasing the heat even as shame pricked the back of his neck.
The mattress groaned under them when Tarsem shoved him flat, his weight pinning Neteyam’s hips with practiced ease. His mouth was hot and insistent down Neteyam’s throat, teeth marking the dip above his collarbone in a way that punched a ragged "Mhnn—" from his chest. Neteyam’s fingers scrabbled at the sheets, twisting in the rough fabric as Tarsem’s hands made quick work of his jeans, the button popping open with a sharp snick.
Cold air hit his thighs, but Tarsem’s palms were fever-warm when they slid up his bare skin, thumbs digging into the crease of his hips. "Fuck, you’re hot," Tarsem muttered against his jaw. Neteyam wanted to protest—wanted to snap that he wasn’t some easy drunk—but then Tarsem’s fingers curled around his dick, and the words dissolved into a choked moan that echoed too loud in the tiny room. His back arched off the mattress, braids fanning out around him like spilled ink.
"Ahh—!"
Tarsem’s grip was merciless, his strokes rough where Aonung was teasing, relentless where Aonung would’ve slowed to murmur 'You okay?' against his temple. The difference should’ve been a warning. Instead, it coiled tight in Neteyam’s gut, heat pooling low and insistent.
"Ngh—haah—"
His hips stuttered, chasing Tarsem’s hand like his body had forgotten who it belonged to. The room tilted, neon from the bar’s sign bleeding through the cracked door, painting stripes across Tarsem’s shoulders where he loomed over him. Neteyam’s braids were a tangled mess beneath him, the beads clicking against each other with every ragged thrust of his hips.
“Ahh—fuck—”
The curse tore from his throat, raw and broken, as Tarsem’s thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing precome down his length. Tarsem’s breath was hot against his ear, his voice a low growl that vibrated through Neteyam’s ribs. “That’s it. Let go.” His fingers tightened, twisting on the upstroke in a way that made Neteyam’s vision blur.
“Mhnn—!” His back arched off the mattress, the sheets rough against his bare shoulders, the friction almost too much. The thought should’ve sobered him. Instead, it coiled tighter in his gut, shame and pleasure tangling into something molten.
“Nghh—haah—!” Neteyam’s thighs trembled, his fingers clawing at Tarsem’s forearm where it braced beside his head. The callouses on Tarsem’s palm dragged against his skin, rough and relentless, and Neteyam’s breath hitched with every stroke. “T-Tarsem—” His voice cracked, the name spilling out before he could bite it back. Tarsem chuckled, the sound dark and satisfied, and Neteyam hated how his body responded to it, how his cock twitched in Tarsem’s grip like it was begging for more.
“Say it again,” Tarsem murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Neteyam’s ear. His free hand slid up Neteyam’s chest, pinching a nipple hard enough to make him gasp. “Ahh—!” The sound was punched out of him, high and desperate, and Tarsem’s smirk curled against his skin. “Louder.” His fingers sped up, the rhythm brutal, and Neteyam’s hips jerked off the mattress, his toes curling into the sheets. “Ngh—I can’t—!”
The orgasm ripped through him like a live wire, white-hot and dizzying. His back bowed off the mattress, braids snapping against the sheets as he came with a choked cry, his release streaking across his stomach in hot stripes. Tarsem didn’t let up, his hand working him through it until Neteyam was squirming, oversensitive and shaking. “Ahh—stop—!” He shoved weakly at Tarsem’s wrist, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Neteyam’s thighs quivered as the last aftershocks rippled through him, his braids sticking to the sweat-slicked skin of his chest. “Ahh—nghh—” His breath hitched when Tarsem finally released him, the sudden absence of friction almost painful. He blinked up at the peeling ceiling, the neon light from the bar bleeding through the crack under the door in jagged pink lines. His pulse still throbbed between his legs, oversensitive and raw.
“Nghh—” His fingers twitched against the sheets when Tarsem’s palm slid up his thigh, callouses scraping over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and Tarsem’s mouth was already on his throat again, teeth dragging over his Adam’s apple.
“Mhnn—!” Neteyam’s head thudded back against the mattress when Tarsem bit down, the sharp sting shooting straight to his spent cock. His hips jerked involuntarily, a weak protest caught in his throat. “Ahh—!” The sound ripped out of him when Tarsem ground down, the pressure just shy of painful.
The mattress groaned under them as Tarsem rolled his hips, the rough fabric of his jeans rubbing against Neteyam’s oversensitive skin. “Nghh—fuck—” Neteyam’s fingers scrabbled at Tarsem’s shoulders with every ragged thrust of Tarsem’s hips.
The morning came like a hammer to the skull—sunlight slicing through the thin curtains, the scent of stale beer and sweat thick in the air. Neteyam’s stomach lurched before he even opened his eyes. His mouth tasted like death, his braids tangled beneath him, the mattress beneath his bare back rough and unfamiliar. Then the weight registered—an arm slung heavy over his waist, the heat of another body pressed against his side.
Memory crashed into him like a fist. The bar. The whiskey. Tarsem’s hands on his hips, his teeth on his throat. 'Oh god.' Neteyam bolted upright, bile rising in his throat, and barely made it to the bathroom before he was retching, his knees slamming against cold tile as he emptied last night’s mistakes into the toilet. His hands shook, his ribs ached, and somewhere between heaves, Aonung’s face flickered behind his eyelids—'You’re gonna leave, aren’t you?'—before the anger swallowed it whole.
The bathroom light was too bright, buzzing like a wasp’s nest above him. Neteyam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his skin clammy and wrong. Behind him, the shower curtain rustled. Tarsem leaned against the doorframe, shirtless and unbothered, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Already awake?" he drawled, exhaling smoke through his nose. Neteyam’s stomach twisted again.
The sink faucet dripped like a ticking clock. Neteyam braced himself against the porcelain, counting the seconds between each drop—'one, two, three'—until the room stopped spinning. His reflection in the mirror was a stranger: lips swollen, braids unraveled, the imprint of Tarsem’s teeth purpling along his collarbone. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass. 'Fuck. Fuck.'
"Need water?" Tarsem asked, flicking ash into the sink. His voice was casual, like this was just another morning. Like he hadn’t pinned Neteyam to a mattress. Neteyam squeezed his eyes shut. The memory hit in flashes—Tarsem’s grip on his hips, the way he’d enjoyed when Neteyam came undone.
"I—i need to go," Neteyam croaked, pushing himself upright. His knees nearly buckled under him, the motion sending another wave of nausea crashing through his gut. The tile floor was cold beneath his bare feet as he stumbled back toward the bedroom, scanning the dim space for his discarded clothes. His jeans were crumpled near the foot of the mattress, his shirt nowhere in sight.
Tarsem exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching him from the doorway. "Let me take you home," he offered, voice low and careless, as if they hadn't just—Christ. Neteyam's fingers trembled as he yanked his jeans up over his hips, the button missing, the zipper sticking halfway. His phone lay face-down on the nightstand, the screen dark. He didn't want to know how many missed calls were waiting for him. "I'm good," he muttered, throat raw.
The air outside was a slap of cold against his bare arms. Neteyam blinked against the harsh morning light, his skull throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Somewhere in the fog of his hangover, the memory of Tarsem’s hands on him curled like a bruise—'too rough, too sure, not Aonung’s grip, not Aonung’s shaky breath against his neck—' He swallowed bile.
A text buzzed in his pocket. Neteyam didn’t look. The cracked pavement blurred under his sneakers as he walked—staggered, really—toward his old apartment, the one he hadn’t slept in since he and Aonung moved in together. The key was still tucked behind the loose brick near the fire escape, a relic from before. His fingers shook as he pried it free, the metal cold against his palm.
The door creaked open on hinges that hadn’t been oiled in months. Dust motes swirled in the thin slats of sunlight cutting through the blinds, the air stale with the ghost of his old life. Neteyam kicked the door shut behind him and slumped against it, sliding down until his ass hit the floor. His braids stuck to the sweat drying on his neck.
He should shower. Should scrub Tarsem’s fingerprints off his skin, the whiskey stench from his breath. But the bathroom mirror would show him what he already knew: the purpling bite mark on his collarbone, the reddened skin where stubble had scraped his inner thighs. Aonung would take one look and unravel.
His phone buzzed again. And again. Neteyam flipped it over with a numb hand. '117 missed calls. 223 unread messages.' The previews alone made his stomach twist:
'Where the fuck are you'
'Answer me'
'Neteyam I swear to god
The phone slipped from Neteyam’s fingers before he could stop it, clattering against the hardwood floor with a sound like shattered glass. The screen lit up briefly—'Aonung (7:03 AM): I’m coming to find you'—before going dark again. Neteyam’s breath hitched. Fuck.
Neteyam drag himself to the bathroom. The showerhead groaned to life with a sputter of rust-colored water before running clear. Neteyam stood under the spray without waiting for it to warm, the icy needles jolting through him like a punishment. He scrubbed at his skin with the rough washcloth he’d dug out from under the sink, the cheap soap foaming pink as it slid down his thighs. The water pooled at his feet, swirling with the remnants of last night—whiskey sweat, the musky tang of someone else’s cologne, the salt of his own shame.
His fingers trembled when they brushed the bite mark on his collarbone. The skin was raised, angry, already purpling at the edges. Aonung had never marked him like this—not even in their fiercest fights, not even when Neteyam had goaded him until his fists shook at his sides. Aonung’s touches had always been careful, even in anger. 'Because he loves you', a traitorous voice whispered. Neteyam dug his nails into the mark until pain bloomed bright and hot, until the thought drowned in it.
The soap slipped from his grip when he reached between his legs, the washcloth rasping over the tender skin of his inner thighs. Reddened from stubble, faint fingerprints still visible along his hips. Neteyam’s stomach lurched. He scrubbed harder, the friction burning, but the memory wouldn’t wash away—Tarsem’s hands gripping him like he was something to be claimed, the way his body had responded anyway, the way he’d let him—
A sob tore from his throat before he could choke it back. Neteyam slammed his fist against the tiles, the impact shuddering up his arm. The sound that followed was ugly, broken, more animal than human. He slumped against the wall, the water beating down on his back like a judgment, and let the tears come—hot and furious, mingling with the spray until he couldn’t tell which was which.
The shower water turned lukewarm, then cold, before Neteyam finally shut it off. His fingers were pruned, his skin raw from scrubbing, but the bite mark still glared at him from the foggy mirror—a brand he couldn’t erase. He wrapped a towel around his waist, the fabric rough against his hips where Tarsem’s grip had bruised.
His phone buzzed from the bedroom. Again. And again. Neteyam ignored it, digging through the dusty dresser for clothes that still fit. The sweatshirt smelled like mothballs and old laundry, but it covered the mark on his collarbone. The sweatpants hung loose on his hips, the drawstring cinched tight.
The knocking started just as he was tying his hair back into a messy bun. Three sharp raps, then a pause. Three more. Neteyam’s breath hitched. Aonung. The rhythm was theirs—a code from freshman year, back when they’d sneak into each other’s dorms after curfew. His chest ached.
“Neteyam.” Aonung’s voice through the door was hoarse, frayed at the edges. “Open the fucking door.”
Neteyam’s fingers trembled against the knob. He should’ve known Aonung would check here first—this was where Neteyam always ran when things got bad. The apartment had been a refuge once, before they’d moved in together. Before last night.
The knocking grew louder, insistent—three rapid hits, then silence. Neteyam dug his nails into his palms, the sting grounding him. 'Don’t answer. Don’t—' Another volley, harder this time, the doorframe rattling. "Neteyam." Aonung’s voice cracked through the wood, raw and ragged. "I know you’re in there."