Ellios could feel Hastur's breath.
Warm. Steady. Close enough that every inhale brushed his skin, close enough that the world narrowed to the space between them. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out the club, the past, the future—everything but this moment.
And then like waking up.
"No."
The word escaped Ellios's lips suddenly, sharply, as if pulled out by instinct rather than thought.
Hastur stopped.
For the briefest fraction of a second, nothing moved. Not Hastur. Not Ellios. Not even the air between them. Time itself seemed to pause, suspended in the inch that separated their faces.
Ellios opened his eyes.
Hastur's gaze was fixed on him—dark, unreadable. Not angry. Not surprised. Almost… satisfied.
"Ah," Hastur said softly. "Here it is."
He stepped back, the closeness breaking like a spell. Without another word, he reached to the side table and picked up a small remote. Pressing it he spoke.
"Staff," Hastur said calmly. "Bring a replacement shirt."
The device clicked off.
Ellios stood there, stunned.
What—what was I about to do?
The realization hit him all at once, cold and sobering. His breath caught as his mind rushed backward, replaying everything—his body leaning in, his eyes closing, the way he had waited.
He had almost let a man kiss him.
A man he barely knew.
A man named Hastur.
Ellios straightened abruptly, as if jolted awake from a dream.
"I—I need to leave," he said quickly, words tumbling over one another. "I'm sorry, I just—something came up. I shouldn't be here."
He turned on his heel, heart racing for entirely different reasons now. Panic clawed at his chest—not fear of Hastur, but fear of himself. Of what he might want if he stayed another second longer.
Behind him, movement.
Too fast.
Hastur rose in one smooth motion just as Ellios reached the edge of the booth. A strong hand caught Ellios's arm, firm but not painful, stopping him mid-step.
Ellios gasped as his balance faltered.
The world tilted, and he stumbled backward.
Straight into Hastur.
Ellios's back hit a solid chest, warm and unyielding, and Hastur's other arm came around him instinctively, bracing him before he could fall. Ellios froze, breath locked in his lungs.
His heart went wild.
He couldn't speak.
He couldn't think.
Hastur leaned down, close—too close—and Ellios felt breath brush his ear.
"Why so fast?" Hastur whispered.
The sound of his voice there—low, intimate—sent a shiver down
Ellios's spine. One hand rested at Ellios's waist, steadying him. The other remained at his shoulder, grounding him in place.
Ellios's face burned.
The whisper tickled his ear, soft and dangerous all at once. He swallowed hard, pulse racing, fingers curling unconsciously into Hastur's sleeve.
"I—" Ellios tried, then stopped.
Get it together.
He forced himself to inhale.
"I'm sorry," Ellios said, voice shaky but sincere. "I shouldn't leave like that. I just… remembered something important."
Hastur did not move away.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying Ellios from behind, his presence enveloping him. Ellios could feel the rise and fall of Hastur's chest against his back—slow, controlled, entirely unlike his own frantic breathing.
"You are not very good at running," Hastur said quietly.
Ellios flinched—not from the words, but from how accurate they felt.
"I don't run," Ellios said weakly.
Hastur hummed softly, unconvinced.
Ellios stepped forward, finally slipping out of Hastur's grasp. "I really have to go."
He moved too quickly.
His foot caught on the edge of the carpet.
"Ah—!"
Ellios stumbled again as if once more the universe play tricks on him and fate seemed to laugh at him.
He collided with Hastur's chest, his leg sliding awkwardly between Hastur's stance like. It's like his legs felt his place is on Hastur's chest. For half a second, Ellios's mind blanked completely.
Of all places—
Heat flooded his face as he realized exactly where he had landed again. Mortified, he scrambled back, nearly tripping over himself.
"I'm so sorry," Ellios blurted. "I didn't mean— I wasn't—"
Hastur chuckled.
The sound was low, smooth, almost indulgent.
"Careful," Hastur said. "You will hurt yourself."
Ellios groaned softly, dragging a hand over his face. "Please pretend none of that happened."
Hastur's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "I find that difficult."
Ellios peeked at him through his fingers, then quickly looked away again.
"I really need to leave," Ellios said, more quietly now, exhaustion creeping into his voice. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by the familiar weight of restraint and responsibility. "I can't—do this."
Hastur studied him for a long moment.
Then he spoke, slowly, deliberately.
"How about," Hastur said, "I escort you outside."
Ellios hesitated.
Everything in him screamed that staying—even for that—was dangerous. That if he lingered, if he allowed even one more touch, one more look, something inside him might break open again.
But he was tired.
Tired of fighting himself. Tired of standing alone.
Ellios nodded.
"Yes," he said softly.
Hastur wore the yellow shirt that the staff brought to him. Fitting perfectly in his body.
Hastur extended his hand and took Ellios's hand on his. His hold both protective and possessive.
The fit was… perfect.
Hastur's hand was warm, large, his grip secure. Ellios's fingers curled naturally against his palm, as if they had always known where to rest.
Hastur began to walk.
Ellios followed.
They moved through the club together, hands joined, drawing glances from staff and patrons alike. Ellios barely noticed. His focus narrowed to the simple rhythm of their steps, the way Hastur guided him effortlessly through the space.
Unknown to him Hastur had a smirk on his face. He murmured softly to himself. Too low for anyone to hear but himself.
"So he's truly gay. How amusing for my benefactor."
He really wanted to laugh out loud for his new toy, but he hid it in on his calm face
And for Ellios, he wondered, what he stood to lose to finally allow himself to want.