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Sylvain didn’t want to come to this party—contrary to popular belief, he actually doesn’t enjoy spending his time smushed between hoards of early twenty year olds and wiping beer off his shoes and going home to scrub the smell of weed out of his skin. It’s so gross. Especially when the party isn’t in their shared house where Sylvain knows everything is clean, because Sylvain is usually the one who takes care of the upkeep in their home. He makes sure the pillows are fluffed, the blanket is fresh, their couch has been vacuumed, the bathroom has been scrubbed clean at least twice that week.
This place though?
Sylvain eyes the room over the rim of his solo cup filled with tequila and cranberry juice. It’s his third cup. It’s still not enough to ignore the disorganisation of this fraternity living room.
Both couches were definitely acquired from somebody’s dumpster diving trip. They're raggedy and flat and no amount of scrappy blankets and hoodies can cover up the stains. And there’s plenty of clothing scraps to go around. It’s like these people don’t own closets!
The coffee table is too tall for how shrunk the couch is, and Sylvain can feel his eye twitch seeing all the cups and cans sitting on top of the wood with not a single coaster in sight. Just further ruining the already cheap table.
He looks over and sees a group of muscle men, dressed in their basketball shorts and cut off muscle tees, gathered around a keg. They’re egging each other on, laughing loud enough to grate against Sylvain’s eardrums alongside the booming bass of the music filling the room and taking up too much space. Beer spills from their cups and onto the carpet— the carpet, god, they have carpet— adding onto the various stains already there. People try to squeeze past them with minimal success. Not until a spunky short red head shouts loud enough to be heard over the music, “oh my god, get out of the way!”
They all startle like frightened deers and immediately give her room. Annette huffs before nodding her thanks and reaching behind to grab Mercedes hand and stomping past them. Sylvain snorts at the sight.
“Hey, Annie! Mercie! My favourite girls,” he coos, wagging his fingers around his cup towards them. Annette rolls her eyes but Mercie gives him a wave. “Didn’t think I’d see you guys here!”
“We didn’t want to,” Annette says, leaning up toward him to speak into his ear. “But Ashe needed some moral support.”
“Where is he anyways?”
Mercie points across the room. Sylvain spots the top of Ashe’s head poking out the kitchen doorway. He leans over and sees Dedue standing next to him, hunched down and nodding to whatever Ashe is saying. They’re smiling and whispering in each other's ears, and Sylvain gives an impressed nod. “Alright, well, doesn’t look like he needed much support.”
“Have you seen Ingrid?” Annette asks.
Sylvain chuckles and points over to the couch where Ingrid is sitting, the couch eating her alive, with her girlfriend Dorothea basically sitting on her lap. Dorothea is playing with her hair and giving Ingrid 'The Eyes'. Which Ingrid has still yet to learn the meaning of.
“Okayyyyy,” she drawls, “busy then.”
“Are you taking on the role of wallflower tonight, Sylvain?” Mercedes says. Out of everyone, aside from his childhood friends, she sees through him the best.
He gives a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I guess so. My broken heart doesn’t have the energy to mingle and dance.” He clutches his chest for extra effect, which only earns him another eye roll from Annette.
“Broken heart my butt, how long were you even dating this girl?”
“Oh, come now Annie, he spent a lot of time with Gracie.”
“I thought her name was Anna?”
“No, that was the girl before this one, but there was that one guy in between—“
“Adam!” Annette shouts. She groans, “ugh , I hated him.”
“Excuse me,” Sylvain interrupts. “Can we move on please? My heart is broken, I’ll remind you!”
Annette waves her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure, hey, be a doll and grab your favourite girls a drink!”
Sneaky little thing, he thinks, waving his finger in her face before she shoves him away with a laugh. He heads off towards the kitchen anyways.
It’s quieter on this side, he notices. Not too quiet though—the blaring music still makes the walls vibrate, but it’s a little duller than where he was standing. He walks behind Ashe and Dedue, stopping to lazily drape himself over Ashe’s back and interrupting their conversation. “Good morrow, lovebirds, enjoying the party?”
Ashe lights up bright red, stuttering something like w-we’re not lovebirds! Dedue however, is unphased. “Your use of that word is incorrect, Sylvain. ‘Morrow’ means tomorrow.”
“Dedue,” he huffs, “can’t I just have a little fun? Can I have my bit?”
All he gets in return is a slight smile. Ashe pushes against his chest and shoves him away, his ears still bright red. “D-Do whatever you need to do.”
“Gettin’ rid of me already?” He coos. Sylvain walks over to where all the booze is set up and peruses in search of something to make for Annie and Mercie. He makes Mercie a gin and tonic, and Annie gets a lackluster malibu bay breeze. He’s workin’ with what he’s got.
He makes himself another tequila cranberry too—fourth one, but who’s counting?
He carefully carries his drinks across the kitchen, and just before turning back towards the sea of drunk college students, he turns over his shoulder and says, “don’t make out without me!”
He scurries away just as Ashe practically screeches “Sylvain!”
He spots the girls sitting on the couch next to Ingrid and Dorothea, chatting to each other the best they can over the music. He hands them both their drinks with a dramatic flourish that makes Mercie giggle and Annie scoff fondly. Mercie offers him a seat. Sylvain promptly declines.
He stands next to them as they chat, not really hearing what they’re saying, but not really trying to either. He goes back to people watching while he nurses his drink.
He finally sees Dimitri surrounded by some people from other groups—he recognises Ferdinand, the posh kid from the eagles house; Petra, who is also an eagle but only transferred here recently, so he’s not too familiar with her; Raphael, one of many big muscly jock guys in the room, but Sylvain’s pretty sure he’s the only one in the deers; and, to Sylvain’s extreme shock and surprise, Flayn, the daughter of one of the professors at school. How she got in here, Sylvain is dying to know.
They’re all huddled around Dimitri as Flayn gives him fruit after fruit, all of them cheering when they crumple in Dimitri’s hands. Raphael gives it a go with an orange. It splatters all over his already stained shirt and it gets in his eye, which Flayn and Ferdinand try to help remedy. It’s an entertaining sight, for sure.
He moves on and sees Felix standing in a far corner near the windows, away from most of the groups. Hubert and Linhardt from the eagles house are with him, not sharing any words. Felix makes eye contact with Sylvain as he lifts what looks like a half smoked blunt up to his lips, pulling long, and blowing out a large cloud of smoke. Sylvain pointedly chugs half his cup in return. Felix just rolls his eyes and ignores him.
“Sylvain!” Ingrid calls to him. He turns his attention to her, bending at the waist to hear her better. “Are you behaving tonight?”
He gives her a smirk. “Not unless you want me to.”
Her face scrunches up in disgust and Dorothea laughs next to her. “Back off, big boy, this one's mine.”
“Oh really, I had nooo idea,” he gasps, “I thought you were grinding on her lap platonically!”
He dodges Ingrid’s hand that flies his way with a bark of laughter. He loses his balance for a second and catches himself against the coffee table, inwardly cringing at his hand touching a wet spot. Halfway through righting himself, his eyes glance across the room and he freezes in place. His jaw goes a little slack.
There at the entrance stands a man Sylvain’s never seen before, but definitely wishes he had. Immediately his aura comes off as casual, carefree, and even from the distance and hazy fog of the room Sylvain can tell he’s pretty; perfect smile and soft edges. His hair looks soft but wild, curls sticking this way and that, with some sort of yellow wrap or headband around his forehead. There’s a force tugging at Sylvain. Like this guy has him wrapped around a lead and is pulling him close.
He hardly gives the girls any notice, just mumbling out a, “uh, I gotta go,” before he stands up and starts walking. He stumbles a little bit around all the people, his four drinks finally catching up to him, but he manages well enough. He keeps his eye on the guy, watching his laugh as he talks to someone, studying the way his eyes crinkle.
He makes it to his destination in one piece, heavily leaning himself against the wall next to where the guy is standing. He has no room to think. “Hey.”
The guy stops his conversation, turning to Sylvain. He gives him a confused look, eyes— god, those eyes are pretty— roving over him quickly. “Uh, hi?”
Shit, Sylvain should’ve thought some more. He stares dumbly at the guy for a few seconds, his brain struggling to catch up between his drunken haze and that weird gravitational pull he felt his way here. “Hey,” he repeats, breathless. He shakes his head and rights himself up again, trying to come back to earth. “Name’s Sylvain.”
The guy looks even more confused, but there’s a hint of something alongside it; entertained, maybe? Intrigued? Nevertheless, he gives Sylvain a half smile and says, “cool, I’m Claude.”
Claude, his mind stupidly repeats. “Claude.”
Claude just blinks at him. He laughs a little, Sylvain’s chest aching in a weird way from it. “Yep, that’s me.”
Suddenly, Sylvain’s view of Claude is obstructed by a well manicured hand waving in front of his face. “Hellooo, Sylvain! Earth to dum-dum!”
He looks down and next to Claude stands Hilda, one of the girls from the deer house, and someone Sylvain has a strange friendship with. Well, friendship might be too much. There’s an...understanding of sorts between them. Developed after a night much like this one where Sylvain drank himself dead and Hilda was the unlucky girl that was about to get into his pants—before he threw up all over them.
They didn’t end up sleeping together, but they had a weird kind of…bonding moment? After Sylvain took off his pants and chugged a bunch of water, they sat on the floor of this random bedroom in someone’s house, and Hilda had said, “You’re definitely fucked up.” The way she said it gave Sylvain the impression that she wasn’t talking about the current moment.
He doesn’t remember much after that, but ever since she’s kinda been like this odd presence that sometimes showed up during parties and would sit and tell him all sorts of gossip stories and take the occasional shot with him. She’s alright, in Sylvain’s book.
Though, he wasn’t really expecting to see her, so he still struggles to catch up and remember to use words. “Oh, Hilda, hey! What’s up?”
She eyes him, like she knows something he doesn’t, and crosses her arms. “I’m sightseeing. And watching you be pathetically drunk again.”
“I’m not—“ he stands up straight, propping himself up with an arm against the wall, “I’m not that drunk yet, okay?”
“You gotta be, cause you’re acting real dumb in front of Claude.”
Claude gives another laugh that makes Sylvain’s heart pound a little loud in his ears. “Ease up, Hilda, it’s amusing!” He looks back to Sylvain and his eyes are bright— beautiful. “Whatcha been drinking, Sylvain?”
“Uh, tequila cranberry.”
“How 'bout you grab me one of them, huh?”
Sylvain smiles, nodding his head and already moving to go. “Yeah, sure! No problem.”
As he walks away he just barely catches the word puppy from Hilda, but hears Claude’s laughter loud and clear.
It takes true strength to make it back to the kitchen. It feels like the people in the room have doubled, and the house definitely isn’t big enough for all of them. He manages anyways and is thankful the kitchen is still relatively empty. Ashe and Dedue are still there, closer than before, still chatting. Some other people walk in to grab more beers from the fridge just to stumble their way back out. Otherwise, pretty clear.
He stands in front of where all the bottles of spirits and mixers are. He grabs the tequila of his choice and definitely pours way too much into the cup. He pours the cranberry juice over it and stirs it up like that’ll help mask the alcohol.
“That one for me?”
Sylvain jumps when he feels something touch his arm. He looks over and sees Claude watching him knowingly, smirk on his face, chin resting against his shoulder. This close, Sylvain can admire how long his eyelashes are, how his green eyes shimmer and shine. He stutters for a second, hand clumsily grabbing the cup and almost knocking it all over. He hands it to Claude. “Yeah, all for you!”
Claude accepts it and takes a small sip. His brows immediately furrow and he chokes out a laugh. “Wow, yeah, no wonder why you’re like this.”
“I might’ve put too much tequila.”
”That’s for sure.” He eyes it before shrugging and taking another sip. “Well, you know how to welcome a guy to a party.”
“It’s not my party,” Sylvain says.
Claude looks taken aback for a split second. “I figured—I know who’s party it is.”
“Right. It’s just—our house parties are cleaner. And a little quieter—Dimitri doesn’t really like the sound of the bass, hurts his head afterwards—but our food is usually banging too! Dedue and Ashe like to cook a lot,” he says, pointing in the direction he hopes the two are located, “so, yeah. Uh. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
Claude snorts— actually snorts— and tries to cover it up with another sip. “Right, good to know. So you’re in the lions house?” Sylvain nods. Claude waits for more of a response, but when he doesn’t get one, he just smiles and shakes his head like Sylvain’s a lost cause. Which he totally is. He starts making another drink for himself.
When his brain finally processes the conversation, he startles. “Oh! Wait, so, uh, since your friends with Hilda I’m assuming you’re part of the deers?”
“Thanks for askin’. Yeah, I’ve got a part to play.” He watches Sylvain fumble with the bottles, tipping a few over and hurriedly setting them back up. He chuckles at the flush on Sylvain’s cheeks. “How bout we go take a seat, big guy.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
Claude’s eyes rove down Sylvain’s neck and down his chest to where his necklace lays. He reaches up and hooks a finger around the chain, turns, and starts walking. Sylvain follows along with no complaint. He catches Ashe and Dedue’s gazes following him before they’re gone.
Claude confidently weaves his way through the crowd, shouting greetings and waving at people he recognises. Sylvain is pulled along less confidently, occasionally stumbling over his feet. He definitely spills his drink a couple times, but that’s probably for the best.
When they make it to the couches, Sylvain hardly even has a chance to protest before he’s pulled down and plopped right next to Claude. Across from them on the other (shitty) couch, Yuri raises his cup. “Sylvain! I haven’t heard anything about you all night!” He laughs and nods toward Claude. “I see you’ve met our deer.”
Sylvain hardly has the cells capable of responding. Claude tosses his legs over Sylvain’s lap, leaning back against the flattened arm rest. “That he has. Made quite the first impression, too.” He winks at Sylvain.
“Oh I’m sure he did.”
He tries to glare at Yuri but doubts it’s at all effective with the state of his…everything.
They chat for a bit, Sylvain in the middle with his hand twitching at his side, eager to touch where Claude is draped over him. His jeans are ripped, more than Sylvain’s, which means there’s patches of dark tan skin taunting him. He keeps his hand still. He overcompensates by chugging his drink, not even wincing at the strength.
Eventually some of the other smokers join the bigger crowd of drunks. Yuri lights up his own blunt, pulling a long drag and blowing it off to the side. He hands it over to Claude who takes a drag of his own. Sylvain watches, entranced, as Claude lifts the blunt to his lips, watches his chest rise with his inhale, watches the cloud of smoke billow up and disappear. Claude cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you want some?”
“Sylvain’s more of a drinker,” Yuri states.
“Have you ever tried it?”
Sylvain nods dumbly. “I’m not that great at it. I cough a lot. I’m more of an edible person. Less choking that way. At least the bad kind.” Sylvain should shut up.
He hears Yuri’s cackle and Claude gives his own chuckle in return. His eyes bore into Sylvain’s own, and he watches as Claude’s smile turns mischievous. “Have you ever heard of a shotgun?”
Sylvain shakes his head.
Claude’s eyes seem to glint under the colourful lights. He lifts the blunt back up to his lips and takes a longer pull, keeping his mouth closed. He reaches over and grabs Sylvain’s necklace and tugs him close. Sylvain opens his mouth to say something but is frozen when Claude leans in, close enough for Sylvain to feel, but not close enough for their lips to touch, and exhales the smoke into Sylvain’s mouth. The act itself sends shivers through Sylvain’s arms and spine, tingling down to his fingertips and toes. The smoke fills his lungs, burns in a strange way, and it makes Sylvain turn his head and cough a couple times. Claude holds him close by his necklace still, watching him with amusement.
“You really aren’t good with smoke, huh?”
Sylvain coughs into his arm again, the burn going up his throat. “Apparently n-not,” he chokes out.
Claude grabs his drink out of his hand and lifts it to his lips, tilting the cup and letting Sylvain drink. It’s driving him crazy, the way he’s acting. Sylvain feels like he’s been electrocuted. His eyes slowly follow Claude’s every move. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. Except for Claude. In his vision Claude is crystal clear.
“Let’s try again,” he says. “When I blow, don’t try to inhale more than you can take. Just breathe normally. Got it?”
Sylvain nods. This time, when Claude leans in close to blow out his smoke, Sylvain forces his body to relax and breathe evenly, letting the smoke ease its way into him. It goes better this time, Sylvain only needing to clear his throat. He already feels hazy and floaty, like he’s riding the very clouds they’re blowing.
Claude gives him a break in between every drag, watching and observing him while he does. He hears a muffled voice in the distance, drowned out by the music and the fluff filling his head and ears. “Get a room, will ya?”
Claude chuckles again, and Sylvain stares at the rise and fall of his chest, the tilt of his lips, the way they drag over his canines and crinkle his eyes. He takes another drag and leans in towards Sylvain. This time, Sylvain lets his eyes fall shut, leaning even closer and bridging the gap between them. Their lips glide against each other, and Sylvain’s tongue rolls out and tastes every bit of him—Claude tastes like weed and tequila—and the feeling sends shockwaves of pleasure through his body. He shivers, leaning more and more against Claude. He finally lets his hands roam, one resting against his hip and the other gripping one of his ankles. He can feel Claude’s lips turn upwards into a smile, and that just makes Sylvain want more. Sylvain can’t think outside of kissing Claude. The world around him mutes and distorts and all he can hear, see, breathe, feel is Claude.
They break apart, a string of spit connecting them that Sylvain wants to chase with his mouth, and Claude leans back, bringing Sylvain with him. “Eager, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he sighs, diving back in for more. There’s no weed smoke this time, just pure taste of Claude. He feels like he’s drowning, pulled against the tides that are Claude's lips against his. Their kiss gets messy quick, all tongue and teeth, and Sylvain holds back a groan when Claude pulls his necklace again. His hand grips his waist tightly, kneading the muscle there and relishing in the gasp that Sylvain swallows up.
Before they can get too far—before Sylvain can lose himself in Claude, can feel more of him, taste more of him—Claude’s knee pushes against Sylvain’s chest, nudging him away. Sylvain is briefly thankful the thump of the music hides his whine. “Easy there, cowboy, I don’t do public shows for free.”
Sylvain licks his lips, letting his words enter his ears and drag their way to his brain. Right, he thinks, we’re at a party.
Claude giggles— giggles!— and pushes him to sit up. He stands, bending over to put out his blunt, before turning and motioning to Sylvain with his finger in a come hither motion.
Sylvain follows.
They both struggle a little more getting past the crowd this time around, but through every stumble Sylvain keeps his eyes on the back of Claude’s hoodie. He follows him towards the back of the house down a hallway. Claude knocks on a door and waits, opening it when there’s no response. He turns around and grabs Sylvain by the openings of his muscle tee (yes, he judged those other guys, but at least he’s wearing jeans) and drags him in.
He barely has a second to register where they are when Claude pushes him against the door and his lips are back on his, teeth pulling at his bottom lip and hands sneaking under his shirt. Sylvain feels like putty, melting and molding against Claude. He moans openly against his lips as he uses both hands to grip Claude’s waist and tug him close. They’re flush against each other, hip to shoulder, not a breath between them. Sylvain moans again when he feels Claude’s hands reach up towards his pecs and then drag his nails down his torso. Sylvain thinks he died and went to heaven. Except he really just got pulled into some frat house’s bathroom.
Sylvain’s hands wander as well, caressing soft warm skin under his hoodie before circling around and grabbing two fistfuls of Claude’s ass, squeezing and grinding against him. In the back of his mind he wonders why he doesn’t feel anything hard rubbing against his own erection, but he doesn’t get the chance to ponder about it any longer once Claude locks his lips against his neck, sucking a harsh bruise that he soothes with his tongue afterwards. “Holy shit,” Sylvain gasps.
He feels the grin against his skin before Claude uses one hand to grab the edges of his ‘sleeves’, pulling them together in the middle of his chest to expose both his pecs. He dives in and latches onto one of Sylvain’s nipples, causing him to knock his head against the door. His hiss of pain eases into a whine when those teeth gently graze against the hard nub of his nipple. Claude lets go with a wet pop , before sucking more marks and bruises across Sylvain’s chest.
He’s humping against Claude like a dog in heat, chasing after that delicious pressure against his cock. He feels delirious, euphoric off of this whole situation. It’s like Claude knows exactly where to push, where to bite, where to pull. Sylvain yearns, he aches for more. His hands dip underneath the waistband of his jeans and creep down. He drags his hands down each mound of his ass, grabbing them both in his hands. They give easily, filling up each handful like they were made to be there. Claude lets out a breathless laugh, choking off into a moan when Sylvain squeezes just right. His fingers inch down and just barely brush against his hole. Claude twitches away, pinching Sylvain’s nipple between his fingers. “Ah, ah, ah, we’re not going there big boy.”
Sylvain doesn’t whine, he doesn’t, but he might explode if he doesn’t get his hands on something.
Claude, as if sensing this, smirks up at him and pushes off, stepping to the side and hopping up on the bathroom counter. He grabs Sylvain by his shirt (it’s definitely stretched out by now) and pulls him to stand in front. “Kneel on the ground for me.”
Sylvain does so with ease, dropping to his knees and looking up at him. Claude laughs and runs a hand through Sylvain’s hair, scratching his scalp satisfyingly. Sylvain can’t help but lean into the touch, tilting his head back and silently asking for more.
“You really are a puppy…”
Sylvain doesn’t even question the statement, so pleased with Claude’s hand in his hair. It’s gone as soon as it came, and Sylvain looks up with a pout. ”I was enjoying that.”
“You’ll enjoy this more.”
He reaches down and undoes the button on his jeans, slowly pulling the zipper down. Sylvain watches like he’s under a spell, almost drooling in anticipation. He swallows thickly when Claude shimmies his pants off. Sylvain’s eyes zero in on the wet spot on his underwear. He feels a hunger he’s never felt before, aching and desperate to get his mouth on him.
Claude teasingly pulls his underwear down at a snails pace, revealing more of his beautiful tan skin inch by agonising inch. When they fall to his ankles, Sylvain’s eyes rove over Claude’s torso, following the trail of dark hair leading down, down, down.
His mouth immediately waters when he comes face to face with his soaking wet cunt. So that’s why…
“Still know what to do, puppy?”
Sylvain nods, hands flying up to grip each of his knees and pulling them further apart. The smell of sex and slick permeates his senses, and his cock twitches in response. He’s achingly hard, so hard it hurts, straining against his jeans, but all he can focus on is Claude and getting his mouth all over his sex.
He has no mind for teasing or dragging it out. He leans in and swipes a long stripe up Claude pussy, from hole to clit, and he goes mad just from that. He groans and goes in for more, mouth closing around his enlarged clit and sucking.
“A-Ah, fuck, easy there,” Claude’s grits, his hand finding its way back into Sylvain’s locks. It spurs him on and he doubles his efforts, sucking while simultaneously rolling his tongue around the little head, pulling off with a wet pop before diving back in. “S-Shit, hey—“ he tugs his hair sharply, “that’s extra s-sensitive. Move on,” he huffs.
Sylvain nods again, lost for words, and proceeds to move lower. He laps up all the juices gathered at his entrance, tonguing through his folds and drinking every drop. Claude’s moans are music to his ears, a symphony he’s never heard before. The hand in his hair massages his scalp, grip tightening and loosening in response to Sylvain’s tongue. Sylvain could get drunk off of this alone.
He lets go of one of Claude’s knees and instead pins it down with his arm over his thigh. His hand reaches out and gently lifts Claude’s little cock up to give him more access, letting him reach deeper inside him. He hears Claude’s head knock against the mirror, his other knee coming up to drape over his shoulder and pull him closer. “F-Fuck, you’re not t-too bad, big boy.”
Sylvain looks up at him the best he can with his position, smiling, and diving in even deeper. His tongue probes around Claude’s hole, licking him clean of all the slick around there before breaching, drinking him up like he’s a man lost in the savanna who just stumbled upon an oasis. He gently tugs Claude’s clit with his thumb and pointer finger, stroking it while he eats him out. It earns him another hand in his hair, the grip stinging wonderfully.
“Oh, damn, S-Sylva— ah,” he whimpered, writhing and grinding against his mouth, “I’m close.”
Sylvain moans wantonly against him, quickening his pace. The slick mixed with Sylvain’s saliva makes jerking Claude off even easier. Sylvain doesn’t even register how he’s humping the air, grinding against nothing, dick trapped painfully in his jeans.
Claude’s moans jump in pitch and frequency, his grip tightening, his legs locking around Sylvain’s head, and then he’s twitching and spasming against his mouth with a broken cry. Sylvain’s hips stutter in response, a molten hot wave crashing over him.
Eventually Claude has enough and pushes his face away, breaths coming in hard and heavy. He shivers when the air of the room hits his soaked pussy. Sylvain watches him tremble and feels the familiar heat in his abdomen return.
“Hah,” Claude chuckles, “well then.”
He looks up at him. Claude looks beautiful, his face flushed and his headband askew, his hoodie rucked up his stomach, his hair a mess. Sylvain probably doesn’t look any better; Claude probably pulled a clump of hair outta his sculp, and he’s probably redder than a tomato, and he definitely has pussy juices spread all over his mouth and chin. He reaches up to wipe some of it away, licking his lips for the rest. “Did I do good?” His voice comes out hoarse and crackly.
Claude laughs again. Sylvain likes making him laugh. “Yeah, you were a good boy.”
His cock gives a valiant twitch in his pants that makes Sylvain hiss silently.
“What’s that?” Claude leans over to peek down at Sylvain. When he sees the dark wet spot in Sylvain’s jeans, the imprint of his dick leaving little to the imagination, he whistles as he leans back again. “Wow, did you actually cum just from eating me out?”
Sylvain nods sheepishly.
“That’s hot.”
Suddenly someone bangs loudly against the door, a muffled shout of “C’mon, a guy's gotta piss in here!”
Sylvain jumps up with a quickness that startles a laugh out of Claude. They manoeuvre in silence, Claude quickly wiping himself down and pulling his underwear and pants back up as Sylvain splashes water on his face and tries to calm the nest that is his hair.
Just before Claude opens the door, he turns around and reaches up to grab Sylvain’s chin, turning his face this way and that. He hums. “You weren’t too bad, Gautier. Maybe I’ll search you out next time.” With that, he winks and opens the door. “Hey, Balthus! All yours,” he says, patting the guy’s—Balthus, apparently—shoulder.
Sylvain watches in a daze as Claude saunters away and disappears in the crowd.
“Dude,” Balthus says. Sylvain snaps back towards him. “Can I piss now?”
“Y-Yeah! Yeah, sorry man,” he murmurs, sliding past him and speed walking down the hall. He collides directly into Felix, almost knocking him down on his ass. “Shit! Sorry Fe!”
Felix grumbles as Sylvain rights him, shaking off Sylvain’s hands. “Where the hell have you been?”
Sylvain scans the crowd behind him, searching, peaking over heads and between crowds.
“Hello!” He yelps when Felix smacks him in the shoulder. Felix glares at him. “You’re not even listening to me.”
“Sorry, sorry. I was…” he trails off. He scans a little more before giving up. Not a glimpse of that yellow headband. “...I was busy.”