Crimson Bonds

17

Shot glass of tears

The music pounds around Peter, each beat reverberating through his body like a pulse. The air in the pub is thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something sweet—maybe spilt cider—mixing with the heavy bass that shakes the floor beneath his feet. But Peter is oblivious to everything except the figure on stage.

Saifa is in his element, swaying behind the mic, his presence magnetic. The stage lights cast a halo around him, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the few strands of copper hair sticking to his skin. His fingers move like a blur over his guitar, the music shifting into a more frantic tempo that has the crowd cheering.

Peter tries to take a sip of his beer, but the bottle feels foreign in his hand, like it doesn't belong there. His eyes are locked on Saifa, the rest of the world fading into a hazy blur. He's aware that he's staring—too much, too long—but he can't help it. The way Saifa moves, the way the music seems to flow through him, it's all too mesmerising.

He's been here before, watching Saifa perform, but something is different tonight. The air feels charged, electric, like something is about to happen. Peter can't deny the pull anymore. He's done pretending that his feelings for Saifa are merely platonic. They're not. They haven't been for quite some time, and now the truth is staring him in the face, just like Saifa is, from across the stage.

As the last chord echoes through the pub, Peter feels his heart stutter in his chest. Saifa's gaze catches his, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, it's like they're the only two people in the room. Then the spell breaks as Saifa flashes that easy, confident smile and steps down from the stage.

Peter should have known better than to come to another one of Saifa's gigs. He isn't ready to face these emotions, these dangerous, uncharted waters of attraction that threaten to swallow him whole. He hasn't learned how to manage this... thing between them. If Saifa ever found out how he felt—well, Peter couldn't bear the thought of being rejected, not again. Theoden had made it painfully clear that some parts of Peter were just too much to handle, too difficult to love.

Saifa reaches him in a few strides, still radiating energy from the performance. He grins, a flash of white teeth, and slings an arm around Peter's shoulders as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Did you like it?" Saifa asks, already steering Peter toward the bar. His voice is slightly breathless, the remnants of adrenaline lingering.

Peter forces a smile, hoping it doesn't look as strained as it feels. "You were incredible," he replies, and he means it. Every time. But saying it out loud, here, with Saifa so close, feels like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff.

"Hey, guys," Aiman greets them as they reach the counter. The Werewolf bartender wipes his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder and leans in, his eyes flicking between the two of them. "What's it gonna be tonight? Shots? Beers? Cocktails?"

Peter barely has time to process before Saifa's mischievous smirk is directed at him. "Shots?" he suggests, eyes glinting with a challenge.

Peter winces, remembering the last time they indulged in shots. "I have work tomorrow," he protests, though the excuse sounds weak even to his own ears.

Saifa's grin widens, and he leans in closer, his breath warm against Peter's ear. "Not until the evening, and I know you don't have any lectures. Come on, Peter, live a little." His voice drops to a whisper, sending a shiver down Peter's spine. "Six shots, Aiman."

Peter's stomach does a nervous flip. He wants to argue, to tell Saifa this isn't a good idea, but instead, he finds himself leaning against the bar, watching as Aiman prepares their drinks. Saifa's proximity is intoxicating, more potent than any alcohol, and Peter feels his resolve crumbling.