#I remember sitting outside a dressing room on an unremarkable day for no other reason than I decided I wanted to remember it in a decade

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

“A part of me still thinks we’ll find our way back around.”

I hope we do ❤️

I left the church a while ago and I don’t think I have any blessings I can actually give but the best one I can think of is that I hope you find a place for your art to go

[thiswasinevitableid]

If I haven’t missed the boat yet on winter prompts, 24 with Vincent and Apollo? Vincent is, like, a professional harpist and unaccustomed to provoking strong feelings of lust in anyone, but Apollo is miserable because of his job and family and the cold weather and Vincent’s low-key performance brings him more joy than he thinks he’s felt in months. Also maybe Apollo (who is dressed to kill, obviously) starts hitting on Vincent after Vincent has already overheard him shutting down several people who attempted to flirt with him?

Here you go!

The irony of Abbadon Company hosting a party on Martin Luther King day is not lost on Apollo. Though he’s not sure where “how useful they are to me” falls on the color-of-skin to content-of-character judgment spectrum. 

Apollo glares at his wine, then at the snow outside, and finally the woman his age approaching him with a flirtatious smile. His father has more or less ordered him to treat this evening as a chance to meet a prospective partner, but he has no interest in such pursuits. Other men may enjoy having their egos stroked by pointless–or calculated– flirtation, but Apollo doesn’t need such things to know he’s superior to everyone here.

The bulk of them will be working for him in the next ten years. The sooner they learn to only come to him when absolutely necessary, the better. 

God he hopes it’s ten years. If his father lives much past fifty Apollo may be forced to kill him himself. 

He moves from the dining room to the living room, the shape of the house and the marble of the floor making his steps echo even when the hall is full of people. 

As he helps himself to another glass of wine (red, so expensive that people gasp when they see how many bottles his father puts out), the assistant V.P of Public Relations approaches him. This is the worst part of Indrid turning his back on the family; anyone who wants to raise their position at the company by flirtation or flattery now has only one Cold twin to direct that at. Not that Indrid deserved any of it, not once he started dying his hair and putting tattoos where people could see them. He looked ridiculous and was a disgrace to the Cold name, but at least he was here.

“That’s a lovely tie, Mr. Cold.”

Apollo looks at the other man, “Given your own ensemble I’m amazed you can identify any clothing of actual quality.”

Then he strides away to the far corner of the room, wishing the Christmas tree was still up to provide some degree of cover from these opportunists. 

Sitting, he allows himself a moment to close his eyes and repeat in his mind all the reasons this will be worth it. 

Music, light and elegant, curls around his brain. The longer he listens, the more it slips beneath his skin, coaxing his muscles to relax, his joints to remember they’re bone instead of iron. Were he alone, he’d let himself sway side to side as he soaked in the melody. Instead he opens his eyes and searches for its source. 

A harp stands in the corner to his left. The man playing it is unremarkable. Apollo knows this because his height and weight are clearly average, as is the grey in his hair. Yet he cannot take his eyes off him, stares at the way his fingers strum the harp and his face creases into a smile as he plays. 

Summoning all his stealth, he shifts one seat to his left, then another, and another, until he’s on the sofa nearest the harp. He watches him play for at least fifteen minutes, wondering if this is how cobras feel when they rise from their baskets at the call of the flute. He’s so engrossed in the music that he doesn’t notice the quartet of string instrument players until one of them says, “Hey Vincent, is it alright if we start setting up.”

Vincent glances at the gilded grandfather clock, “Oh, of course. I hadn’t realized it was eight already.”

Damn his father for hiring a parade of musicians to show off. Apollo is not about to let this harpist leave without a fight. 

When Vincent stands, Apollo mirrors him and purrs, “Would you care to join me for a drink?”

“That’s a very kind offer, but the host made it clear performers weren’t to go off and join the party.”

“Seeing as I am Apollo Cold, if you’re with me no one will argue. If they do I’ll simply eject them from the premises.”

Rather than looking impressed, brown eyes glitter with bemusement, “You liked my playing that much?”

“Yes. Ergo, have a drink with me.”

Vincent chuckles, “Alright. Just one, though, I have to drive home.”

They adjourn to the cluster of wine bottles, and Apollo gets a thrill out of the way Vincent’s eyes widen at the labels. 

“Someone here certainly has expensive taste.” He glances at Apollo, “which one do you prefer?”

“That one.” He points to a Cabernet Sauvignon that he identified as being the one that indicates he knows what he’s talking about without being completely vile to drink.

Vincent pours them each a glass, stepping back to allow a trio of younger attendees access. Two of them are making goo-goo eyes at each other to a degree that suggests they’ll be in the New York Times wedding announcements within a year. Apollo feels rather ill.

As he steps to the side he lets his eyes glide down Vincent’s chest, “Your suit is magnificent. Where did you get it?”

“I had it made when my older sister got engaged so I’d have something to wear to her wedding. Lavender was one of her colors and, well, I liked the suit so much it’s become my favorite to wear to formal occasions.”

Apollo looks more carefully at the grey fabric and realizes it is, in fact, magnificent. The pinstripes of lavender and metallic silver shooting through it like flowers in a sidewalk, perfectly matching the tie around Vincet’s neck and giving him a subtly playful air.

“Do you work at Abbadon?” Vincent sips his wine, letting out a little “mmm” and regarding the glass appreciatively. Apollo envies it. 

“Yes. I stand to take over the company when my father retires.”

“That’s quite a tall order.”

That wrong-foots him; why isn’t Vincent allowing him just to stand here and flatter him?  Men with wrinkles and noticeable guts usually can’t get enough of that. He poached four top engineers for Abbadon that way!

“I suppose, but I was born for it. Your harp…work? Is excellent. Do you play with the symphony?”

Vincent full on laughs, and Apollo feels like he’s under a blanket by a fireplace, warm, cozy, and perilously close to going up in flames, “Glad to know it sounds so professional. I’m actually a security consultant. I play as a hobby, have since I was a boy.”

“Your father let you do that all day?” Apollo gestures to where the harp is tucked safely under its black covering. 

A grey-black eyebrow raises, “My father’s the one who encouraged me. Nothing made him happier than his children exploring the arts.”

Indrid’s last argument with their father flashes through his mind, his fool of a twin hissing that he’d rather be broke and bringing beauty into the world than trapped in a golden cage forged in blood. 

“I can’t say ours did the same.”

“You have siblings?” Vincent seems genuinely intrigued in that piece of small talk. 

“I’ve no interest in discussing them.” Apollo smiles, “I’d much rather talk about you.”

A quirk in Vincent’s polite smile suggests he knows what Apollo is doing, but he lets the younger man lead him out onto the balcony all the same. 

As the clock ticks down to midnight, Vincent reveals himself to not only be musically talented but conversationally captivating and charming as well. By the time Apollo runs out of ploys to keep him in the house, what he wants from the interaction is increasingly jumbled. He wants to drop to his knees or into Vincent’s arms and beg him to take him with him, to not leave him alone here. He wants to throw himself over the railing or into the fire for having such ridiculous thoughts in the first place. 

He wants a hug. 

“I’d better get on the road. Quixote is probably fussing up a storm as we speak.” 

“I could hire someone to go check on him for you.”

Vincent gives him a gentle smile and holds out his hand, “Thank you, but no. It was wonderful getting to know you, Apollo.”

Apollo takes the offered hand, shaking it, “will you play here again?”

“Maybe, if someone gives a good review to your father.” He winks, then pulls on his coat, “goodnight, Apollo.”

“Goodnight.” He holds the door for him, giving a final wave as Vincent goes to meet a rideshare that can get his harp home safely. Then he closes it, runs upstairs, and watches from the study window until Vincent is gone.

—------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent double checks his list, the lights inside Walgreens buzzing like dying bugs as he makes sure he’s not forgetting anything. The storm is only supposed to get worse over the week, and he’d rather not go out again if he can help it. 

Blond hair in the security mirrors catches his eye, and a cursory glance over his shoulder confirms Apollo is two aisles over, idly studying the make-up shelves. Yet another data point in the confusing phenomenon that is Apollo Cold. 

That the younger man was so taken with his playing at the party wasn’t odd, but the attempted flirtation that followed certainly was. 37 year old harpists don’t generally inspire lust in anyone, in his experience. And it’s not as if Apollo had no other places to put his attention; from his corner, Vincent watched him burn a path through the room, hair like summer sun and a face that would be beautiful if he didn’t look so murderous. Vincent even overheard a guest lay out his plan for flirting with the Cold heir, only to watch Apollo deliver a remark that caused the man to flee.

So, yes, having that sharp persona soften over the course of the evening was flattering and endearing. Vincent was half-convinced the younger man was going to beg to come home with him, and his mind has since formed a whole galaxy of thoughts circling around him. 

Then there was the fact Vincent has played three events since the party and Apollo has been to every one of them. What’s strange is Apollo never comes near him while he’s there; just finds somewhere to hover or hide and listens to him play. Whether he’s doing this out of shyness or a desire not to make Vincent feel stalked is unclear. 

And now here he is, in a drug store on the opposite side of town from the Cold mansion, nowhere near anywhere Abbadon does business, on a weekend, in a massive storm. If he follows Vincent to his apartment, it’s time for a talk. 

He checks the reflections in time to see Apollo skillfully palm a bottle of nail polish. Then he’s making his way to the exit, with no indication he even knows Vincent is there. 

Curiouser and curiouser, as his mother would say. 

Vincent pays and leaves the store, snow sticking to his hair in the time it takes to pull up the hood of his coat. On the corner, in a fawn colored greatcoat, is Apollo, glaring at his phone. As Vincent gets closer, he can tell the heir is jumping between rideshare apps and cursing under his breath. 

“Apollo? Is everything alright?”

The younger man actually jumps, expression one of pure terror when he sees who’s addressing him. Then his mask is yanked back in place. 

“No, because no one in this blasted city is taking passengers right now.”

“Probably because the snow is about to make the roads impassable. Are you trying to get home?”

“Yes, as I’d rather not stay in some dump for days on end.”

“You could stay with me, if you’d like. My apartment is just a block up and I have the space.” He offers in part because he wouldn’t put it past Apollo to try to walk the miles home in a blizzard, daring the weather to kill him all the while. But, as guilty a thought as it is, the idea of Apollo, storm-tossed and sheltering in Vincent’s home is extremely appealing.”

“Very well. I will stay with you. Give me those bags.”

“I can carry them just fine.”

“Give me the bags old man, I do not want you falling.”

Vincent laughs and hands them over, “Alright, if a strapping young thing like you wants to carry my things, who am I to argue.”

They wobble and shuffle until they reach his building. As they climb the stairs Apollo cocks his head, “You have the entire top floor?”

“Yes, though it’s not as fancy as you’re hoping. It was originally two studio apartments that they renovated into one. Here we are.” 

The click of the lock is answered by a jingling collar, Quixote trotting to the door and instantly circling Apollo to sniff him out. 

“Hello, dog. You are very pretty.”

Vincent tries not to laugh as he takes the bags from him and carries them to the kitchen. Apollo out of his element is awkward, yes, but a thousand times more human than the man he met at the party. 

Apollo joins him in the kitchen, sitting at the table and studying the room like a detective trying to solve a murder. 

“I’m going to make an early dinner. Would you like something to drink? I have wine, though nothing quite like your father’s collection.”

“....Do you have anything less bitter?” Apollo says, so softly that Vincent’s heart twists with worry.

“Of course. Here” he pulls out a pomegranate San Pelligrino, “These are nice. I keep some in my fridge since my nephew wants to drink “fizzy water” like the adults.”

Apollo pops the tab and sighs happily after his first sip, “Yes I like that much better. What are you making?”

“Carbonara. Can you pass me a cheese grater? It’s in that drawer.”

Apollo finds the implement and hands it over, asking if Vincent always cooks for himself and if it’s always so elaborate and…

Twenty minutes later, dinner is nearly ready and they’re thoroughly engrossed in a discussion of mid-century, Italian cinema. For someone who snapped orders left and right the last time he saw him, Apollo is remarkably willing to take directions to set the table and further shut out the storm. Vincent wonders if he’d take directions so gladly in bed, if the way he brightens when Vincent says “thank you” translates to the kind of man who melts at the slightest praise when on his back. 

He forces himself to push those thoughts aside; if Apollo is interested, his stealth at the concerts suggests he’s shy or embarrassed about it. Not to mention he’s functionally stuck with Vincent for the next few days, and hitting on him feels too much like he’s being a creepy old man. He only likes to do that consensually. 

They chat happily over their plates, and it becomes clear that while Apollo is smart as whip in his field, he’s not as interested in taking over the company as he wants everyone to believe. As he’s clearing dishes, Vincent’s curiosity gets the better of him. 

“Why take nail polish? Even the fanciest kind must be in your budget.”

Apollo cocks his head, “What do you mean?”

He’s good, Vincent will give him that, so good that for a moment he questions what he saw with his own eyes. 

“In the Walgreens. We were in there at the same time.”

His guest stands, “you must have seen someone else. I was in the Starbucks on the corner, not the Walgreens. Excuse me.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and Vincent wonders what the odds are of him trying to throw the nail polish bottle out the skylight. A few minutes later, a baffled voice drifts down the hallway.

“What on earth is this?”

Vincent crosses the hardwood, Quixote at his heel, to find Apollo staring at a photo on the wall. 

“That’s my father.”

“He is in a dress.”

He chuckles, “Very observant.”

“Watch it old man.”

“If you must know, young man, that’s from a Christmas panto. He studied abroad in England and did a few of those while he was over there.” He nudges the photo to rest at the right angle, “it’s actually where he met my mother. They were both Americans studying away from home, and to hear him tell it he saw her in a production of Twelfth Night and knew he was going to marry her.”

Apollo snorts but keeps listening. Vincent guides his attention to another photo, this one of both his parents at their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

“Mother was from the east coast, father from the west, so they compromised and moved to Chicago. My father ordered her fresh roses every week, even when she was staying home raising us. He’d take us to museums and plays on the weekends to give her a break and some rest.” He looks at the man in the photo, in his lapis lazuli blue suit and smiles, “I’ll always be grateful to him for taking my coming out so well. Though we disagreed about how flamboyantly I was willing to dress at work; he thought I should dress how I liked. I wanted to avoid too much pushback and losing chances at my career.” He touches Apollo’s arm, “that suit of mine you like so much was one of my first forays into wearing what I wanted.”

Apollo stares down at where Vincent’s hand rests on his sleeve like it’s the first time he’s seen the gesture. When he looks up, his amber eyes are fighting to conceal his nerves. 

“I couldn’t risk someone, anyone, seeing me buy it. That is why I am all the way out here in the first place. It was foolish anyway, I won’t have any chances to wear it, and remover smells, he will be able to tell in an instant-” Apollo shakes his head, digs his hand into his pocket and produces the bottle, “here, take it.”

Vincent opens his palm. When the bottle drops into it, Apollo meets his eyes, “If you breathe a word of this to anyone I will destroy you.”

Vincent doesn’t doubt he could. But he doesn’t think he will. Not with how his shoulders and hunching inwards. 

“Come with me.” Vincent holds out his other hand, guiding Apollo to the couch. He shakes the bottle and twists the cap, raising his eyebrows in question.

“He, I, I can’t.” 

“You’re staying a few days here, right?”

“Absolutely. Because I am not a fool who passes up time with an interesting man.”

He blushes, “And I have some nail polish remover from when my niece stayed here. You can take it off whenever you need to.”

Apollo looks at their joined hands, then back up, “Do it.”

Vincent strokes the brush across the first nail, Apollo’s breath catching at every little touch. Light purple, flecked with gold, glides into place, and the longer he works the more Apollo’s heartbeat thumps in his wrist. 

Fuck going home after the storm. He’s keeping Apollo here, with him, forever. He’ll spoil him and paint his nails and give him anything his heart desires, kiss his face and run his hands over those long legs and tempting body until he stops looking like a hunted lion. 

Apollo keeps his hands still once Vincent is done. As he puts the cap back on he murmurs, “I like this color.”

“I…I chose it because of you. It reminded me of you.”

Carefully, he takes Apollo’s right hand and turns it over, then bends to kiss the skin of his wrist. He’s expecting a gasp. What he gets is a moan. 

“Is that alright, sweetheart?”

“Yes, yesyes, Vincent, please, I want, I want…”

He catches each wrist, kissing them in turn before holding them apart so he can lean forward and kiss Apollo’s lips. Newly painted fingers flex and Apollo whines against his mouth. 

“It’s not fair, doing that when I cannot touch you yet.”

Vincent kisses him again, just to hear him sigh, and whispers, “You seem to have stolen a quick drying variety. But more than that…” he kisses down Apollo’s throat, “we have time to get acquainted, and we can see each other whenever we like. Unless, of course, you want to go back to watching me play the harp from the shadows.”

Apollo lunges forward, kissing him demandingly, before pulling back with a smile at once wicked and brightly, painfully, hopeful, “Never."