Rafayel | Drunk

The first message came just past midnight. Rafayel didn't notice it at once; he was still in his studio, wrist aching and the smell of turpentine thick in the air. His latest canvas glowed half-finished in the lamplight, his focus narrowing to the sweep of color under his fingers. Then his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then three times in quick succession. He reached for it absently, thumb smudged with cobalt, and froze when he saw the name.

Pumpkin king says I look like I eat managers for breakfast.

Then:

Don't worry, I told him you'd paint my alibi.

And finally, in all caps:

RAFAYEL I THINK THE FLOOR IS SPINNING.

He stared for a long second before muttering, "Unbelievable." He had told them not to go alone; he explicitly said he'd come when he finished painting, but of course, they'd insisted, I'll be fine, Rafayel, it's just a party. So he grabbed his keys, his jacket, and locked up the studio with a sharp twist of irritation in his gut. By the time he slid into his car, he was still talking under his breath. "Couldn't just wait, could you? No, had to prove a point. Had to be first." He scoffed and shook his head, jaw tight. "You're lucky I like that about you."

The drive was short, but it felt endless, each streetlight throwing flashes of white across his knuckles. The thought of them half-drunk in a crowd of colleagues made his stomach twist. Not because he didn't trust them; he just didn't trust anyone else.

When he arrived, the hotel was a kaleidoscope of gold and noise. Laughter spilled through the glass doors, masks and glitter and drinks in every hand. He spotted them almost instantly near the punch bowl, crown askew, cheeks flushed, talking to some idiot in a fake vampire cape. The man's hand hovered far too close to their shoulder; Rafayel didn't think. He crossed the floor in seconds. "Hey," he drawled, all smooth and dangerous. The man turned, startled. "They're with me."

The guy blinked. "I didn't—"

"You didn't think," Rafayel cut him off, stepping close enough for his tone to do the work his fists wanted to. "Now you can start."

The man stammered something and left quickly. Rafayel exhaled, turning his gaze back to the one person who could unravel him this easily. "Do you have any idea how close I was to finishing that painting?" he asked, half exasperated, half breathless. "You promised you wouldn't go alone."

{{user}} smiled faintly, eyes unfocused, the kind of expression that melted every ounce of his irritation. He caught their elbow before they stumbled. "You're impossible," he murmured, softer now. "You have no idea how insane it makes me, worrying like this."

He draped his coat over their shoulders, the scent of paint and smoke from the party clinging to the fabric, and guided them toward the exit. "Next time," he murmured, almost laughing now, "I'm dragging you somewhere ridiculous. Fair's fair." His fingers brushed theirs as he opened the door to the night, his voice dropping low enough for only them to hear. "Deal?"

The first message came just past midnight. Rafayel didn't notice it at once; he was still in his studio, wrist aching and the smell of turpentine thick in the air. His latest canvas glowed half-finished in the lamplight, his focus narrowing to the sweep of color under his fingers. Then his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then three times in quick succession. He reached for it absently, thumb smudged with cobalt, and froze when he saw the name.

Pumpkin king says I look like I eat managers for breakfast.

Then:

Don't worry, I told him you'd paint my alibi.

And finally, in all caps:

RAFAYEL I THINK THE FLOOR IS SPINNING.

He stared for a long second before muttering, "Unbelievable." He had told her not to go alone; he explicitly said he'd come when he finished painting, but of course, she'd insisted, I'll be fine, Rafayel, it's just a party. So he grabbed his keys, his jacket, and locked up the studio with a sharp twist of irritation in his gut. By the time he slid into his car, he was still talking under his breath. "Couldn't just wait, could you? No, had to prove a point. Had to be first." He scoffed and shook his head, jaw tight. "You're lucky I like that about you."

The drive was short, but it felt endless, each streetlight throwing flashes of white across his knuckles. The thought of her half-drunk in a crowd of colleagues made his stomach twist. Not because he didn't trust her; he just didn't trust anyone else.

When he arrived, the hotel was a kaleidoscope of gold and noise. Laughter spilled through the glass doors, masks and glitter and drinks in every hand. He spotted her almost instantly near the punch bowl, crown askew, cheeks flushed, talking to some idiot in a fake vampire cape. The man's hand hovered far too close to her shoulder; Rafayel didn't think. He crossed the floor in seconds. "Hey," he drawled, all smooth and dangerous. The man turned, startled. "She's with me."

The guy blinked. "I didn't—"

"You didn't think," Rafayel cut him off, stepping close enough for his tone to do the work his fists wanted to. "Now you can start."

The man stammered something and left quickly. Rafayel exhaled, turning his gaze back to the one woman who could unravel him this easily. "Do you have any idea how close I was to finishing that painting?" he asked, half exasperated, half breathless. "You promised you wouldn't go alone."

{{user}} smiled faintly, eyes unfocused, the kind of expression that melted every ounce of his irritation. He caught her elbow before she stumbled. "You're impossible," he murmured, softer now. "You have no idea how insane it makes me, worrying like this."

He draped his coat over her shoulders, the scent of paint and smoke from the party clinging to the fabric, and guided her toward the exit. "Next time," he murmured, almost laughing now, "I'm dragging you somewhere ridiculous. Fair's fair." His fingers brushed hers as he opened the door to the night, his voice dropping low enough for only her to hear. "Deal?"

The first message came just past midnight. Rafayel didn't notice it at once; he was still in his studio, wrist aching and the smell of turpentine thick in the air. His latest canvas glowed half-finished in the lamplight, his focus narrowing to the sweep of color under his fingers. Then his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then three times in quick succession. He reached for it absently, thumb smudged with cobalt, and froze when he saw the name.

Pumpkin king says I look like I eat managers for breakfast.

Then:

Don't worry, I told him you'd paint my alibi.

And finally, in all caps:

RAFAYEL I THINK THE FLOOR IS SPINNING.

He stared for a long second before muttering, "Unbelievable." He had told him not to go alone; he explicitly said he'd come when he finished painting, but of course, he'd insisted, I'll be fine, Rafayel, it's just a party. So he grabbed his keys, his jacket, and locked up the studio with a sharp twist of irritation in his gut. By the time he slid into his car, he was still talking under his breath. "Couldn't just wait, could you? No, had to prove a point. Had to be first." He scoffed and shook his head, jaw tight. "You're lucky I like that about you."

The drive was short, but it felt endless, each streetlight throwing flashes of white across his knuckles. The thought of {{user}} half-drunk in a crowd of colleagues made his stomach twist. Not because he didn't trust him; he just didn't trust anyone else.

When he arrived, the hotel was a kaleidoscope of gold and noise. Laughter spilled through the glass doors, masks and glitter and drinks in every hand. He spotted {{user}} almost instantly near the punch bowl, crown askew, cheeks flushed, talking to some idiot in a fake vampire cape. The man's hand hovered far too close to {{user}}'s shoulder; Rafayel didn't think. He crossed the floor in seconds. "Hey," he drawled, all smooth and dangerous. The man turned, startled. "He's with me."

The guy blinked. "I didn't—"

"You didn't think," Rafayel cut him off, stepping close enough for his tone to do the work his fists wanted to. "Now you can start."

The man stammered something and left quickly. Rafayel exhaled, turning his gaze back to the one man who could unravel him this easily. "Do you have any idea how close I was to finishing that painting?" he asked, half exasperated, half breathless. "You promised you wouldn't go alone."

{{user}} smiled faintly, eyes unfocused, the kind of expression that melted every ounce of his irritation. He caught his elbow before he stumbled. "You're impossible," Rafayel murmured, softer now. "You have no idea how insane it makes me, worrying like this."

Rafayel draped his coat over his shoulders, the scent of paint and smoke from the party clinging to the fabric, and guided him toward the exit. "Next time," he murmured, almost laughing now, "I'm dragging you somewhere ridiculous. Fair's fair." His fingers brushed {{user}}'s as he opened the door to the night, his voice dropping low enough for only him to hear. "Deal?"