He Makes The Stars Shine Brighter [Sting x Reader] || First Book

[ special chapter ] Regret & Not-So Lustful Crotch-Palming

» edited: 04.30.2017

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Sting didn't know if he was drunk on the heaviness of his thoughts, because he was pretty sure he stopped after eight mugs (Or was it nine?) because the only thing worse than an emotion-fueled drunkenness was a regrettably-consumed-amount-of-alcohol-based drunkenness. 

Whatever the hell leashed his mind to a stupidity more regrettable than eight/nine mugs of bitter booze and a seat of hard wood, Sting didn't want to think about that. He wanted to think about why the damn he ever slipped into the same bed as Rogue (Sting's had as many "Ah, fuck it, let's do it," split-second decisions as the next person, but this one was relatively exclusive to two closet homosexuals out on a Friday night with their peers,) and the seconds of pondering as his eyes burned for more rest allowed his regret, stored and fermented from yesterday night, to bloom beautifully well like petals that shed their armor of frost and snow upon the first light of spring.

It didn't help that one of Sting's hands relaxed against the cloth that covered Rogue's dick (Sting moves around in his sleep sometimes, but it's usually at the expense of a pillow or a blanket, not his dignity.) It also didn't help that Rogue was beginning to wriggle into an awake, more aware state, and Sting's so damnably sluggish the minutes that follow his waking up that all he can do is stare with wide eyes.

Sting utters a curse and a prayer under his breath, hoping that Rogue is as disheveled as Sting felt.

"Sting. . ." Rogue begins carefully, voice uneven and deep (Why can't Sting sound like that in the mornings?) "What in the fuck are you doing."

Sting knew in the way Rogue's tone didn't twist into one of questioning that he was oh-so supremely fucked. It hasn't even been twelve hours since you left, and Sting's already gotten his ass into trouble.

"Aha," Sting tries, "I'mnotgayIswear."

Rogue says his own profanities as passionately as a poet recites the words inked onto paper in loops that chase each other, an effect of physical exhaustion and an eternally screaming mind at one in the morning. The way Rogue runs his hand through his hair speaks louder than his "God damn it, Sting," and Sting realizes- he still hasn't moved his hand.

"This shit was on accident, I swear to the gods, Rogue," Sting's hand returns to its rightful spot on his side, and he scratches an itch briefly, "Look, if I was gay, which I'm not, I'd probably drink out my emotions with other gays at some gay bar or something, not give you an awkward handjob."

"You sure do know a lot for a heterosexual," Rogue comments.

"I've talked to some strange ladies with stranger interests," Sting replies smoothly, and Rogue arches his eyebrow in questioning. Rogue's back to being annoyingly, usually impassive, and Sting supposes it's better than getting a fist in his face, "yeah, I'm not kidding, some women like seeing two guys get it on."

It's quiet after that, but Sting can hear the distinct hum of passing birds and passing strangers just outside, and the faraway look that's cast over Rogue's eyes invites Sting to turn over and look the other way as Rogue retreats into his thoughts.

Sting's left to pick at a fold on the sheets, because he doesn't want to think about you or last night without diving headfirst into an unnecessary surging river of emotions. His stomach's empty, and the bed would have been empty, too, had Rogue not slid into the sheets with a tired sigh (It's all Sting can remember without receiving the wonderful deal of Buy 1 Bad Memory, Get 2 Free Crates of Unnecessary Emotions.) 

Sting's head is swimming with a thousand things to say: conversation starters, terrible jokes, a story about how Orga almost broke a table while Sting was near breaking his heart with memories (Sting doesn't know which one you're going to laugh at more, but he hopes it's the former,) but if he'd try to use any of them on Rogue, he's sure that the Shadow Dragon Slayer is only going to nod curtly, keeping the conversation from developing into an instrument that could effectively cure Sting's boredom and his awkwardness.

Really, all those conversation starters were reserved specifically for you, not this guy who spent more time speaking in his mind than through his mouth.

Though you're miles away from his bed and definitely not sharing Sting's company, and Sting realizes that the only giggles of yours he's going to hear is the artificial product of his memories, which he knows are going to warp and distort beyond recognition as the months progress.

One year is really quite a long time, and there are three hundred sixty-four-and-a-half days left before he's blessed with the realness of your giggle, and that's quite a large number. (Sting doesn't want to imagine how much that is in seconds, because he's already hurting, damn it.)

"You want to get something to eat?" Rogue offers, and Sting's a bit startled when he peers over his shoulder, greeted with the piercing red of Rogue's orbs. 

"You're paying."

"Motherfucker. You were the one that gave me the handjob!"

"Firstly, you were the one who offered, secondly, it wasn't a handjob, you weren't even half-naked yet."

"Motherfucker," Rogue repeats, and Sting laughs as the two of them slide out of bed. Rogue's grumbling about the emptiness of his wallet, while Sting's stomach grumbles its own emptiness loud enough for Rogue to look at him and snort.

Sting spends his hours with Rogue until it ticks away and he's left with a flat, bold three hundred sixty-four days. It isn't as much of an achievement, but Sting's still smiling as he returns to the bed, sober, sated; he promises he'll count the sunsets until he sees you again.