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One.
One appletini is what he lets Steve order for him.
Just one drink, they both agree. And then, just one song on the dance floor. And after that… they will come up with just one more thing, they are sure.
Steve sits on the barstool next to him, on the one that squeaks loudly whenever he moves. The sound pierces through the pulsating music easily; and Steve just grins widely upon hearing it, choosing to spin ‘round and ‘round on it, until he is forced to stop and admit there is not one thing in his vision right now that isn’t completely blurry.
5up spins around on his chair too; just one turn though, an attempt to sync himself up into the frequency with which Steve’s world spins.
Their appletinis arrive and they lift up the glasses, bringing them to touch in the air. One clank gets drowned out by the loud music.
Steve sits on the barstool next to him, one button of his leopard-print shirt undone. 5up makes a point of not staring at that spot.
Okay, maybe he steals one quick look.
Their conversation flows as well as one can flow in a place where even hearing one’s own thoughts is an extreme challenge; sometimes, 5up catches just one word of Steve’s joke, but he still finds himself laughing at it. Being around Steve does that to him sometimes - it takes this pressing weight off of his chest and replaces it with joy, with ease. One light feather in the place of one tonne of steel.
Steve sits on the barstool next to him, one leg crossed over the other. His jeans are ripped and 5up attempts to count all of the spaces between the fabric, spaces where Steve’s skin is exposed to the warm overhead lighting; he starts counting at one.
He does not get further.
Steve’s foot, the one that’s been dangling in the air, nudges playfully at his shin.
5up lifts his gaze, finding one already waiting for him. You almost finished? it is asking.
There is one last sip left in 5up’s glass. He downs it in a single gulp.
An open palm floats in the air between them, extended by Steve with a wordless invitation.
5up lets their hands meet, the fleeting touch growing into something firm and real, one finger at a time.
One song, they agree.
Two.
Two songs pass before they are back at the bar. This time around, neither of their stools squeaks.
Two appletinis, Steve grins at the bartender.
He is holding up his hand, a v-shape formed between his index and middle finger; 5up stares at the way the skin curves around his knuckles and at his two bare fingernails; he thinks about these two bottles of nail polish he owns, collecting dust on his bathroom shelf. Would Steve let him paint his nails, he wonders; would he let his hand rest gently in 5up’s palm, a show of trust as the sharp smell of nailpolish would make their heads light?
5up averts his gaze before his thoughts can get any further; he looks back over at the dance floor and starts counting people who are also drinking appletinis tonight.
Two is how far he gets before Steve taps his shoulder, two soft presses against his arm. 5up wishes he wasn’t wearing a sweater.
He wishes for a tank top.
On the bar, two martini glasses await them.
5up takes his, two sips just enough to wash down some of the heat he started feeling inside his chest; it’s from dancing to those two songs, he reasons.
He dares to look at Steve.
Two of his shirt buttons are undone, he notices immediately. The gap between the fabric doubled now, the ends of the two clavicle bones visible. Steve’s skin glows and shimmers, droplets of sweat catching the light in just the right way to make 5up believe the space he is observing is littered with stars.
They blind him, and 5up should not be shocked by the realisation; looking up at a bunch of stars from this close of a distance would do that to anybody. Still, he forces his gaze to linger a little bit longer.
Just two more moments, just two more breaths. Just two more heartbeats.
Two hands rest on the bartop - an unlikely pair, mismatched from two different beings. A left and a right; but when 5up’s focus goes blurry and objects start overlapping right in front of his eyes, all that’s left feels right.
If he lifted his finger, he thinks he might be met with the weight of another hand.
He doesn’t let himself test the theory.
Two guys continue sitting by the bar.
He dares to look at Steve again.
Two eyes are already watching him.
He desires to drown in their intensity.
He can taste the sweetest of apples on his tongue and he wonders if Steve can too. It is not the appletinis, he tells himself. But what if it is?
Blindly, he reaches for his glass; on its way, his hand stumbles two times. Both of them over the fingers that've been laid over it.
His heart stumbles too.
The appletini does not taste of lightness nor of sweetness. 5up takes two more sips to confirm that.
Steve’s hand is still on the bartop.
5up considers it for two seconds, using each of them to their full potential.
A second: there are two ways for a hand to be turned - face up or face down. Hopefully awaiting touch or silently grieving the loss of it. Steve’s hand falls into the former of the two.
A second: there is a twitch to his fingers. If 5up were braver, he would have called it longing. An ache to reach out, to connect two pieces of magnets with opposing poles.
5up watches his palm float down into Steve’s. Light and sweet.
The two of them hold each other’s hand as they leave for the dance floor.
Three.
Appletini is three parts vodka, 5up learns, mixed with an equal part apple cider and orange-flavoured triple-sec.
Why is it not called orangetini, then? he asks Steve.
Orange you glad it isn’t? Steve asks him.
It makes 5up crave oranges; a wistful sigh slips from his lips. It stretches through three of his heartbeats.
We should buy some oranges, he hears Steve say, but that can’t be right; it is him who has been thinking about the fruit just now. It is him whose hands long to touch the moons, right along with other heavenly bodies.
I could peel it for you, so you wouldn’t get your fingers all sticky.
The image sticks to the forefront of 5up’s mind.
Three fingers would be enough to peel an orange, he thinks; the thumb and the index and the middle. Only those three would get covered in the fruit’s juice, only those three would be left with the pieces of white skin stuck underneath the fingernails. The rest would be free for 5up to hold. Perhaps to even paint with the nail polish.
The image sticks to the forefront of 5up’s heart.
His eyes wander towards the nearest clock.
No place that sells oranges is still open three minutes before midnight.
Even if such a place existed, the oranges would not be the type his heart long for right now. No, that type could only be found in Spain or Italy perhaps, in a sun-lit orchard that stretches as far as the eye can see. The air soaked with warmth; the ground soaked with peacefulness.
He would need a ladder to reach the ripe fruit. Steve probably wouldn’t.
He’d use it anyways, 5up imagines. He’d climb up, three steps more than enough for him to easily reach the very top; to easily reach the sun, a reunion of long lost relatives.
The dreamy vision dissolves into soft clouds in just three blinks.
Everything disappears; the orange speckled trees, the firm ladder, the ripe fruit.
Everything but Steve.
Three of his shirt buttons are undone.
And three's a pattern.
Under the warm lights of the bar, the browns of Steve’s leopard shirt could almost be mistaken for a shade of dark orange.
5up wants to offer himself to be the person who does the peeling.
Instead, he just finishes his drink. It does not taste like oranges at all.
It is three minutes past midnight when they slip off their barstools and back onto the dance floor.
Four.
Four rounds should be enough.
Four of his shirt buttons are undone.
It is not all of them.
It is not enough.
5up downs his drink in four gulps and lets his fingers slip into the four empty spaces between Steve’s, dragging him back into the pit of pulsating music.
Five.
Steve sits on the barstool next to him. It squeaks again, but this time, Steve doesn’t make it spin.
He just sits silently as 5up orders the appletinis, the final round of the night , he swears. He just sits silently as he takes a cautious sip from the glass, his brow furrowing slightly as if only with the drink number five, the harsh taste of liquor finally caught up to his taste buds.
5up sips his own drink, content to do it in silence at first. His brow surely furrows too; this time around, the appletini tastes like he imagines an ending would; hints of finality intertwined between the sour bitters.
They drink silently for the duration of five heartbeats.
Are you going to undo it? he hears himself asking. The button number five?
Didn’t think you noticed.
5up laughs - how could he not have?
On a handful of occasions, sweet apples and ripe oranges might have squeezed into his mind, wishful dreams of the juicy fruits stirring with his intoxicated thoughts. Were he to measure out that concoction, he thinks he would find it to be about five martini-glasses worth.
Five martini-glasses worth is merely a drop in the ocean when compared to the all-consuming tides that wash over him whenever the distance between him and Steve shortens.
Five martini-glasses worth is merely a speck of dirt on the lens of his telescope when compared to the blinding luminosity with which the stars that spread across Steve’s skin shine.
Five martini-glasses worth is merely a distraction, the gentlest of caresses, when compared to the gravity each inch of Steve’s chest exudes, an ever-present hold on 5up’s heart.
Only on a handful of occasions, his attention belonged to something different than the personification of the universe that chose to occupy the space by his side. Always breath-taking, always heart-stopping, always mind-flooding.
5up wants to touch him again. But this time around, not only the palm of his hand.
Instead of reaching out, he tries counting his breaths. Five of them.
Exhale; his chest trembles deeply with desire.
Inhale; Steve uses all five fingers to undo the last button.
Exhale; 5up considers offering his own five to help.
Inhale; it is only peeling, he says to himself repeatedly.
Exhale; Steve’s shirt hangs open, loose pieces of fabric.
Inhale; an entire universe occupies the open space.
Exhale; drops of sweat litter that area, a sprinkling of stars.
Inhale; their hands overlap.
Exhale; 5up thinks about their lips next.
Inhale; Steve smiles.
It starts off soft, before gaining on power, on brightness; and just like that, 5up is blinded. It should not surprise him; he knew Steve was made of stars all along.
Five vertices, golden glow, overwhelming gravity. He succumbs underneath it easily.
What about a final drink before we leave?
Another appletini? But there are only five buttons.
Maybe we can figure out something different, then.
Six.
There are six details out of ordinary to be found in 5up’s bedroom:
six pieces of a torn orange skin on a night stand;
five empty places that buttons used to occupy;
four shoes left behind by the feet of his bed;
three tissues spotted with dried nail polish;
two hearts beating out the same rhythm;
one shirt thrown on the floor - peeled off.