Sesto's Aria by jenn and jainieg Part I: Babylon is for losers with no lives, or that's what Ethan tells himself, even when he's standing there, a drink clutched in one hand. Solid bodies coat the floor, a moving, writhing ocean of nameless, faceless people. Like watching the largest clothed orgy in history. He hates it. He hates what it is, a meat market for bodies, for a quick fuck, for mindless, meaningless sex. He hates what it symbolizes, the power one man can have over so fucking many. He never brought Justin to Babylon when they were together. He was never that stupid. It meant something, the day he took Justin away from this, and he remembers how high it made him, giddy like a kid, excited like playing a flawless concerto, like performing for thousands. And it probably means even more that the second Justin left him, he came back here. The lights, with their cartoon-colored gels, flashing on and off in time to the beat of the music, make him feel lightheaded. The music is monotonous and electric - some soulless techno, thick with sharp bass. He frowns into his tonic water and the pitiful slice of lemon floating in it. It's stupid to be here, but God, everything seems stupid these days. A pretty face at a concert, a quick, mindless fuck in a hotel, and the smell of rotting roses on his floor. He was hours staring at them, shaking hands touching ripped petals, velvety smooth beneath the pads of his fingers. They may still be there, dried flowers and the lingering scent of loss. He doesn't know. He hasn't been back. "Hey." Ethan hunches his shoulders against a heavy palm on his shoulder. Meat market for bodies, less than meaningless sex. It's not him. It never has been. "Fuck off." Of course, the one man with power over seemingly every last man on Liberty Avenue *would* be here, tonight. Swaying against the rhythm in the center of the crowd, at the heart of it. Right at home. The techno is sweet in Brian's ears, like Chopin or Pachelbel, and the lights don't make him dizzy so much as whatever he taps out of a small vial onto the back of his hand and sniffs. Ethan takes a drink, eyes fixing as Brian licks the residue away, slow and through, like even this is another kind of sex, and hell, for him, maybe it is. He curses and turns to face the bar, slamming his glass down onto it, but the sound is swallowed up by the crowd, and he can't even get the satisfaction of hearing it. It shouldn't be like this. This isn't how he planned his life. "More--water?" The bartender smirks, and Ethan bares his teeth in nothing like a smile. "Beam." Justin's drink of choice. No, Brian's drink of choice, dark and thick and heavy, burning the tongue, God, Ethan remembers kissing Justin and tasting that like a brand. And even though it wasn't, even though it couldn't be, it always, always felt like Brian's unique message to anyone that did more than look. You may have him now, but I always will. "Fuck." It tastes like shit, Ethan can't *stand* hard liquor, but he throws it back, instantly dizzy from the rush. Another one after - the bartender setting it in front of him without Ethan having to ask - and Ethan takes it, choking a little at the sharp burn From the corner of his eye, Ethan catches a glimpse of blond hair--a dime a dozen here, pretty blond boys offering up ass for shots, for drugs, for fucking *nothing*. But he'd know that color in his dreams, sunshine and the smell of smoke and spring, blue eyes like the sky after it rains, and confidence like a beacon. Dear fucking God, he thought he was ready and he wasn't. One more drink. Maybe that will help. The third doesn't go down any easier. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow, muffling his cough in his sleeve as he half turns from the bar, feeling his eyes begin to water. "Hey, honey, why don't you take your jacket off and stay a while? Not that leather isn't a good look for you, but they've got the heat turned all the way up tonight." Glancing up, Ethan vaguely recognizes the worried face, short honey hair, too-tight clothes. Friend of Justin's. "Fuck. You." Perfectly curved eyebrows slip upward, but he doesn't flounce off, like anyone with sense. Sitting down, the man glances briefly at his glass, then leans an elbow on the bar. "Ethan Gold, right?" Yes, definitely a friend of Justin's. Justin, who's dancing on the floor right now, slim body swaying with that perfect rhythm that always made him so fantastic in bed. Some not-Brian wrapped around his back, but the glazed eyes are fixed on Brian, five people away, and they might be apart, they aren't even fucking *touching*, but they might as well be. "Yeah." He gestures to the bartender for another. If he can't work up the nerve to go up to Justin, open his mouth and try to talk, the least he can do is get completely hammered before he leaves. At least then, the night won't be a total wash. "You're... Emmett?" The man smiles, then extends a hand over his glass, palm down. "Yes. Think you've had enough, hmm?" Before Ethan can say a word, before he can even *think* it, he's pulled up and away, stumbling at the rush of vertigo. "Come sit with us." "Wh - I --" His tongue is numb but his feet seem to be moving just fine. "They have -- tables?" It's kind of welcome, when they move far enough away not to see the floor, but halfway up the stairs, Ethan glances down. Watches dazedly as Justin sniffs a line off Brian's hand, pretty pink tongue chasing after, sucking a finger into his mouth with a glance up that makes Ethan immediately hard. Pulled into Brian as they kiss, like they're alone, like they're not surrounded by what feels like a million curious eyes. Swaying against Brian like he's never been anywhere else, like he has no idea there's anywhere else to be. Like almost five months are *nothing*, like Justin never left this place, these people. This life. That man. "Come on." The hand on his elbow pulls again, and Ethan stumbles up the next stair, Justin's smile burning into his mind, and God, he hates it here, *hates* it here, this fucking church of the one night stand with its high priest feeling up his most willing, most fucking eager sacrifice. Fucking *hell*, why is he here? "Where are we *going*?" he manages, clutching at Emmett's sleeve. His toe catches on the next step and he lurches for a moment before catching himself. Guys of all shapes, sizes, colors file past him down the stairs. A black guy in a cowboy hat and chaps, a blond surfer in a skimpy leather thong with a silver zipper on the front and a black studded dog collar. "I told you, honey - upstairs. I think someone's had a little too much to drink," Emmett says, not looking at him, but still pulling him along. "You were about to fall off your stool." "I wasn't sitting on one." "Exactly." Emmett snorts softly, like he's thinking of something else entirely. "Not for very long, anyway." Another pull--he's stronger than he looks. A glance shows blond hair disappear into the backroom, and God, he could have lived his whole life without seeing that. He knows about it. Knows that less than a day after Justin left him, Justin was here, in that room, and maybe it wasn't Brian, but it was someone. The art of pain management as learned from one Brian Fucking Kinney, like all the habits he'd said he hated, discarded like old clothes and shoes that don't fit and Brian himself, that were just on hold, not gone, not forgotten Ethan may have slipped, one fuck, one night, one stupid mistake, but he never did this to Justin. He never, ever denied who he was. "Down, boy." Somehow, God knows how, they're at a table, and Ethan sees a vaguely shocky--Michael? Hot guy wrapped around him that he knows he'd recognize if he was more sober. "What the hell--" "I'm telling you, they weren't fucking each other," Michael is saying as he took a sip from his drink. "They don't know what they hell they're talking about." "Ooh, gossip? Tell, tell!" Emmett begs as he drags Ethan over to a chair. "Is it good? Is it anyone I know?" "Lex Luthor and Superman," Ted says with a small smile. "Michael's been watching this new show on the WB... Smallhell? Smallworld...?" "Smallville. It's so wrong," Michael says firmly. It's like they don't even *see* him, and Emmett grins and reaches for something foamy and pink, taking a sip as the big man laughs at some low voiced comment by Michael. Across the table is one vaguely familiar face and one not at all. Ted, his mind offers blearily. He remembers him, God, who could *forget*--too thin, too pale, clinging to his water glass like a lifeline. All the earmarks of the recent graduate from rehab. The thin blond with him is doing the same thing, worried blue eyes fixed on him to the exclusion of all else. "That's Ben," Emmett tells him, pushing a glass of water in front of him. "Ted. Blake." Michael looks up, and it's almost funny to see the look on his face when he really *sees* who's at the table. Justin never needed to tell him that Michael was the enemy from day one. It was all over his face every time they saw each other. And that wasn't often. Ethan thinks Michael worked to make sure of that. "How's it goin'?" Ted says, offering him a wan smile. Ethan can still see the sickness around his eyes, the hunger, the craven addiction. "What the *fuck* is he doing here?!" The words are out of Michael's mouth like buckshot, leaden and deadly. "Having a drink," Emmett says, sipping the pink thing so casually, he might be totally unaware of the fact that Michael looks ready to implode. "Ethan. We've met before," Ben--Ben?--says, extending a hand. At a loss, Ethan returns the favor, the big, firm palm sliding against his. He's hot. Ethan's mind offers up a vague memory of Justin saying something like that once. The thought slips away before he can catch it. "Yeah. Um. Hi." "Why does he ha...
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