🍾🥂Snippets 5/6 - Alan

Stumbling towards the car, swallowing down the chilly air and yet another fit of laughter, you try to balance Alan, your coat, his suitcase, and a bottle of expensive champagne you took for the road without losing either of these treasures.

The first of the bunch is even less helpful than the inanimate objects, leaning against you heavily and mumbling ‘one more,’ and ‘I am not drunk, thank you very much,’ all the while you try to unlock his car so that you can wait for his driver inside, away from the prying eyes of the passersby.

It’s not that you’re feeling particularly shy, but Alan’s hands wander very off the pathway considered PG-friendly, and while you know Alan being charged with public indecency would make Alois’ day, you’d rather spare your boyfriend the pleasure of damage control and paperwork. He has enough of the latter as is.

“There, hold on a bit,” you say, propping Alan against the side of his car. The meager light of the lantern is cut abruptly when his body slides closer, not even a full second later.

“Why are we leaving?” he mutters, so uncharacteristically petulant, you wish you could film him and show him his antics tomorrow— But his wounded pride might just prevent him from drinking altogether, and you’ll never see that side of him again. Tough choices. “The night is still young.”

It’s a wonder Alan and Alois aren’t friends - they got to be the only two people you know who’d consider 6 AM to be night, and a young one at that. To be fair, the sky is still dark, which is normal this late into the winter, but you’ve been up since... about the same time yesterday, and he doesn’t even have the gall to be tired. And you are, very much so.

“Move a little, I can’t— There we go!” Look at you, unlocking the door by feel. If only your audience was that appreciative, instead of standing like a log. Oh, not standing. Swaying.

You waste no time, bodily pushing Alan inside. He lands on the backseat, reflectively pulling himself on his forearms to stay half-seated, back pressed to the far window, with his legs sprawled over the remaining seats. He giggles. Giggles, and that throws you off the loop so hard that you don’t even protest when he catches the closest thing he can reach - his suitcase, still in your grasp - and yanks.

Careful to not drop everything haphazardly, you kneel over the space between his legs, placing the baggage on the floor - your poor, poor coat - and closing the door behind you with your free hand.

The AC is off, but the interior is still warm enough to melt the snow off your shoes and into the leather upholstery. “I made a mess of your car,” you admit, not at all sorry. Especially when Alan winds his arm around your side, dragging you into him so abruptly that you nearly lose your balance.

“I’ll make a mess out of you. We’ll be even,” he says, voice whiskey-rough. The innuendo is not at all intended, judging from the innocent expression that turns into a gratified smile when you huff out a laugh at his joke.

“Ow, is my worth only comparable to one of your cars? And you don’t even care about cars—”

Alan blinks, for the first time since you got there he looks around. “That’s my car?” Losing track of the conversation, and with a vigor he didn’t possess a second ago, he tries to sit up and reach the driver’s seat. “I’ll get us home—”

“No, you will not!”

You push at his chest to keep him half-reclined, noticing that he gives in incredibly easily for someone with his affliction. From the self-satisfied smirk that momentarily curls the ends of his lips, you think you fell right into his act. If not for the excessive PDA he engaged— engages you in, you’d think he’s still sober, but no, he’s very, very much not. He’s too handsy for that, too unrestrained.

His lean body radiates heat through the thin silk of his dress shirt. His skin still smells more like his perfume than booze, but his eyes are glassy, all-pupils, long eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. At your careful scrutiny - and a little open appreciation - his pale face drowns in a blush. It should make him look silly, but the natural rouge suits him.

“You really look like a doll, you know. So pretty,” you tease, lifting one of your hands off his chest to brush at his cheek.

He glances to the side in an aborted eye roll, unable to bite off the smile. Under any other circumstances, he’d have several ripostes prepared, firing them like a canon. Now, though, now he’s at your mercy.

Sliding his palm up the curve of your spine and onto the nape of your neck, he gives you a look he’d be mortified to be seen with in polite company. It’d mollify him to know that, well, it works on you better than intended, but hey, he doesn’t have to know that, now, does he? “Is your apartment so barren there’s not even a mirror in it? Come home with me, I’ll show you pretty. And more than.”

That’s the most wasted you’ve ever seen him since— Ever, actually. You’re not sure whether you should scold or praise Clara for refilling Alan’s drinks while he was too busy chatting to notice, much less oppose.

Though you let him press you closer, when he moves for a kiss, you twist your face so that his lips brush your cheek instead.

“We’re in public!” you mock-chastise, twisting yourself to the other side to dodge his next attempt. As much as you’d like to indulge, he’s too fun to tease like this, and you’re pretty sure you could make him beg, like this, or demand. You’re curious to see which comes out first.

“We’re in a car,” he points out, not even sighing at your antics. He does give up on your mouth, though, latching onto your neck and jaw instead, checking all your sweet spots with an elan that leaves you trembling, scrambling for an excuse... Wait, why did you want to stop again? Oh, the—

“Alan, the driver...”

...knocks on the tinted glass window.

Alan makes a noise like a lawnmower starting, and you’d spare some pity for the chauffeur if you weren’t actively dying from laughter.