For
@MaryGold, since you insisted ;) I'm afraid it got away from me a bit.
isiah
It has never been rare to find Vince drinking alone, but now, on his birthday of all days, it's downright depressing. Why didn't he call him to see if he could hang out? He would have dropped everything to make himself available. The bastard didn't even bother to tell him that it was his birthday; he had to find out from his right hand, who'd sent him a picture of Vince sitting alone at the bar of his own club with the caption, "he looks too sad, come get him." Sad, indeed, as the Vince in the picture stares off into the sea of people, nursing a glass of whiskey with a heartbreakingly vacant expression.
So now here he is, making his way into the bustling
Dionysus at 9:42 PM, ignoring the people who attempt to stop him for a chat about his whereabouts since his quitting the place. Vince looks no different from the picture by the time he reaches him, although his expression does morph into one of confusion when he takes notice of Isiah. It's adorable, the way his face pinches as he tries to assess him through his drunken stupor. It makes him look younger, somehow. His eyeliner is smudged, too. It's not often Isiah gets to see him off-guard, so his heart flutters with an appreciation for the moment. "Isiah? What are you doing here?"
"Improving your night with my presence," he grins, draping himself across the neighboring bar stool and counter. He allows his calf to brush against Vince's and tries not to shiver from the contact. "I heard it's your birthday, so I thought I'd congratulate you on another year closer to the grave, old man."
Vince snorts, tossing back the rest of the amber liquid in his glass. His larynx bobs with his swallowing, and his tongue flicks out to chase the remnants off his bottom lip. Isiah's own throat feels parched, so he swallows in turn. "'If you're going to crash my night, I hope you at least brought me a gift."
"I'm your gift," he says immediately, but the words aren't nearly as smug as he'd wanted. The desperate nature of them leaves his face burning, especially once Vince fixes his pale gaze on him with such an intensity that it knocks him momentarily breathless. Before he can say something that will break his heart, Isiah laughs disingenuously, eyes moving to the piano on the nearby stage and away from Vince's oceanic eyes and pretty lips. "I didn't have enough time to get you anything special, but I thought I'd play a song. Here. Like I used to before — well, before," he rushes out, stuttering over the mention of their initial falling out. They've grown past that. At least, he'd like to think so. He'd like to think that they're friends now, although neither of them has ever confirmed it.
"I'd like that," Vince responds, drawing Isiah's attention back to him. He's smiling soft enough to kill him, crow's feet crinkling minutely.
"Of course you would," he sniffs, posturing, "Since you have taste." Vince's smile widens into a grin, and Isiah practically flees to the piano.
Immediately, there are muted cheers from some of the clubgoers, but he pays them no mind as he settles into the familiar seat and sprawls his fingers against the keys. His heart rate immediately spikes in his chest. There's no better time to show Vince what he's been working on, but he's terrified of how the man will react. He probably won't even realize that it's for him, but what if he
does and what if he
hates it?
Deep breath. He closes his eyes and wills himself to play the beginning, ominous chords. Once he's started, he can't just stop with all of these people watching him. So he plays, churning out dark notes that pick up in pace over time, spelling out every childhood tragedy and hard-won battle that Vince has whispered to him like confession in the dead of night. Vince is brilliant, passionate, powerful, volatile. He's never met someone who feels everything as intensely as he does. The world has been cruel to him, so he began to steal from it with tooth and nail. He should never have had to. He opens his eyes and finds Vince's gaze beyond the glow of the stage light, holding it even as his heart stutters. Vince looks away bashfully, and it's hard to tell if the color on his face is from the lights of the club or not. He's so lovely, and he's worked so hard, and Isiah is so proud of him.
He taps out airy notes that sing of devotion, affection, and fragility. Vince is the most sentimental person he's ever met. He's kind, sensitive, protective, self-sacrificial. He'd sooner die than let a loved one bruise. He unapologetically wears his heart on his sleeve and cuts those who would mock him for it. He's as delicate as he is fatal, and it's the most breathtaking combination Isiah knows. He's lonely, too. He shouldn't have to be. Isiah's here, and he needs Vince to know that as he throws himself bodily into the music, eyes locked on Vince's wide ones. His heart is racing in his throat now, and he's choking on it. His head is reeling, but still, his hands don't falter because he needs him to
know, dammit. The spotlight is burning him up beneath his white three-piece suit, but it doesn't matter because Vince is looking back at him, entranced, and even if he doesn't know, he's at least still listening. He can barely hear the music over the rushing of his blood in his ears, but it doesn't matter because he knows this song by heart.
He's practically panting by the time he's finished, and oh, he's trembling. When did that start? There's applause, and he grins, taking a moment to breathe and steady himself. Somehow, he manages to stand and make his way back toward his friend without tripping over his own feet. Incredible to think that he's known for his grace. The pink on Vince's face makes him want to jump into the man's lap and kiss him stupid, but he shoves down the impulse and claps a hand over Vince's shoulder instead. "Happy birthday, Vincent."
"You're a showoff, do you know that?" But his smile betrays his words, and Isiah beams back. Vince visibly softens again, laying a hand over his own. The contact burns. "Thank you. It's the best gift I've had in a while."
Fuck. Fuck him. No, seriously, please. "You're welcome," he croaks before clearing the lump from his throat. "Anyway, I think you've had more than enough to drink tonight, so let me take you home."
Vince snorts, removing his hand, much to Isiah's disappointment. "I can handle myself just fine."
"I don't doubt that. But let me do it anyway. Please?"
Vince is silent, eyes roving his face. Finally, "Fine."
"Good," he chirps, entwining their fingers without a second thought and pulling the man to his feet. "Come on, then."
They stumble through the crowd and out into the cold November night, their clasped hands enough to keep Isiah warm. He helps Vince into the passenger side of his Mercedes before sliding into the driver's seat, turning on the engine and letting it heat up for a moment. Vince leans his head against his window, staring at him with an unreadable expression that makes his skin prickle. "What?"
"Will you play that song for me again tomorrow? I'm afraid I might forget it by the morning."
Damn him. Chuckling, Isiah kicks the car into drive. "I'll play it as many times as you'd like."