Club bathrooms are… stressful.
Or, rather than stressful, they are simply embarrassing. Not only do you have to wait in a long line on a full bladder, stepping from one foot to the other, cursing and praying on the same breath among strangers who do the exact same odd dance, but even once you’re in, you aren’t safe. There are bodily fluids everywhere on the floor, mixed with water and some flyaway, dirty paper, too. Someone is having sex in the stall next to yours without even bothering to keep it down. The toilet seat is dirtier than if you’d have puked on it, which most likely someone already did. Twice. And oddly enough, as the smell hits you, for the briefest moment you want to make it three.
But, alas, you suffer through those things, while someone else is banging on your door and someone else laughs as the moans from the next stall over pitch louder than even the music that never ceases to pound in all your body, even your asshole.
So, officially, club bathrooms are a nightmare. They are awful and inhumane, but that’s just how it is and life has to go on. So Victor pulls up his pants, flushes the toilet and leaves the stall, praying not to slip on anything, or he might just die if he has to touch the floor in this terrible, godforsaken place.
As soon as he opens his stall door, however, he does slip indeed. Except a hand catches him by the front of his shirt and he’s pulled up with such effortless strength that Victor gasps. And only part of it is in relief.
“Oh my god, thanks,” he says as soon as his breath comes back. “My life literally flashed before my eyes.”
“It was nothing. You’re welcome.”
The man before Victor is quite definitely something, though. Something out of a dream. A very, very wet dream. Definitely not fit for a bathroom like this, but if it’s this man and that kind of dream in this bathroom… well. Victor would not entirely protest about doing the same things that the couple in the stall over continued to go at unperturbed.
The man’s dark hair is pushed back with hair gel, which must have contained glitter because wherever light catches on it, it sparkles and shines. It’s the man’s eyes that shine brightest, though. They are a stunning shade of brown, rich and warm and lovely. His cheeks are flushed, his lips are red and his eyes are lined with black khol, and even in the bathroom light he looks beautiful. And, suddenly, Victor knows there’s never been a gayer gay who gayed harder than he has in this moment, heart flutters and all.
“Just so you know…” the man says, and his voice sounds like his eyes: caramel sweet, with a hint of cinnamon, and really, Victor should probably stop drinking for the night if he’s able to taste voices in his mouth, but a voice like this? He wouldn’t mind getting a full gallon of it down his throat— “…your fly is down.”
It takes a second for the words to sink in. Victor looks down.
Lo and behold, he realizes, the man is right. Coughing to mask his embarrassment, Victor pulls up the zipper, mumbles a quick “Thanks,” and like the coward he is, he flees the bathroom without looking back.
