Title: Proxy
Pairing or Characters: Howard/Mystery Guest, implied Howard + Vince
Summary: After his rejection in “Party,” Howard drowns his sorrows.
Word Count: 748
Rating: R, by an outside estimate
Warnings: Rebound sex?
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offense intended.
Author’s Notes: I couldn’t stop myself. Has anyone else ever done this? Um. Comments and criticism are always welcome.
You spot him across the bar, swathed in the kind of grimy darkness that hangs about this place like a haze. One bright sequin catches the weak light like a spark, and your eyes turn towards him as if you were trained. For a moment, something in you leaps with irrational hope, but then he turns his head, and the veil of dark hair obscuring his profile shifts. You swallow, ashamed at your optimism.
You won’t find what you’re looking for here, or anywhere, for that matter. It’s finally become clear to you that you have no right to wish for that small grace. Except for this, maybe, a pale imitation.
He looks as if he’s been here for months, and maybe he has, dining out on that one, brief second of fame he managed to steal. There is something vaguely reminiscent of a tired Parisian grand dame about the way he leans on the bar, but it could just be the voluminous feather boa he has wrapped around his neck.
As if he can feel you staring at him, he turns to look at you. He smiles at you, thin-lipped, smug, carnivorous. Suddenly you feel sure he has been aware of your presence for much longer than you have been aware of his. The thought makes your stomach turn, but you can see the invitation in his dark eyes, and you’re too far gone to let yourself think better of it. You throw back the last of your scotch, and go to him.
He takes you back to his, which reminds you of your own flat, but dingier, drawn somehow in a bleaker palette. The kitchen, where you stand as he pours you a last, ill-advised drink, seems coated in a layer of fine dust. There is a poster with his face on it taped to one of the cabinet doors, and for just a moment, as the alcohol burns a hot path down your throat, you think you will be able to forget.
Even the bedroom looks like your own, with the faded Jagger poster over the bed and the jewelry spread across the dresser like a treasure trove. You stand facing him, uncertain, your muscles tense. He takes hold of you, pleased with himself: here is one thing he has that his rival does not. What he does not know is how little you are worth in that respect.
Somehow, the similarities only throw the differences into sharper relief. Up close, he disgusts you. You can see the crow’s feet around his eyes, and the sullen lines at the corners of his mouth. He smells of ash and plastic, and not at all of orange peels and fresh wind. His skin is dry and coarse against your own as he pushes your shirt from your shoulders, and you wish you could close your eyes and take yourself a million miles away from here.
It is not how you imagined it, not how you have ever hoped it would be. He takes you in a quick, perfunctory way, your head knocking against the wooden headboard with each of his rough thrusts, and for the first time you understand what it means to talk about someone’s “conquests.” He reaches out and takes from you, and gives precious little in return.
When it is over, he falls away from you, already losing interest. You stagger out of the bedroom to find the toilet (it is right where you expect it to be) and are promptly sick.
As soon as you are able, you pull your clothes back on and leave the flat. He does not say good-bye. He is asleep, his mouth open, a grating snore rising from his throat.
You have to fight the urge to scrape your fingernails against your scalp, where your dried sweat has started to itch. Your clothes seem to fit all wrong, and you cannot take a step without being reminded of your mistake.
The night air is cold and damp, and the streets smell as if they have been washed clean. When you get home, after you have rinsed the last traces of grime from your skin, you will crawl into bed beside the one person to whom the night’s indiscretions have been tacitly dedicated. He will not stir when you slide under the covers next to him, and he when he wakes, he will never imagine that it is his voice, throughout it all, that you wished to hear.