LANCASTER AND MAXWELL ( ✔ )

chapter eighteen.

Chapter Eighteen. 

THERE has never been a time he's ever been truly annoyed with Arthur — and no, he doesn't mean the slight irritation at some of the blonde's antics. Sure, sometimes he could roll his eyes and shoot an unimpressed look over at him, but the feeling has always fled as soon as it arrived. In all their years of friendship (or whatever it's been, he can't really tell at this point), he honestly can't recall for even a moment that when Arthur or the thought of him came to mind, he was sincerely agitated because there hasn't been any. 

Well besides tonight, that is. 

"Oh for fuck's sake, Art, you got a tracker on me or somethin'?" He quips, his voice clipped with obvious irritation. He doesn't mean to be cruel about it; it's just that the blonde has gone and spoiled his fun, and he never gets to have any. Though, he's careful not to put his eyes on the older boy just yet because he knows that once he does, everything he's ever felt for him ever will just come back in waves. 

Arthur ignores the question. "What the hell are you even doing here?" 

Sully can hear a snort from behind him, and Abasi gives another squeeze to Sully's hip. "For all that is fucking holy in this simulation we call life. We were having a good time; Maxwell, can you tell Betty Buzzkill to either get in or get lost?" He teases, and it would've made SJ laugh if it wasn't at Artie's expense, but it is and so he decides to purse his lips closed and keep his hips swaying. 

Giving a gentle hum in agreement, Aziza gives his chest a gentle scrape from her nails, her fingers brushing against his rosary. "'Basi is right. He's kinda killing my mood, baby," she coos. 

"He is not your baby." 

The sudden aggravation that taints Arthur's voice over the bass of the music is enough to make the trio look up, Sully's eyes wide with surprise. Taken aback, he feels the irritation that was once riddled in his bones seep out slowly, and he begins to melt at the sight of the love of his life standing in front of him. Because if his feelings were about to come back in waves, they come back in a fucking flood — he has to try not to swoon at the boy.

His shirt's been unbuttoned all the way down saving a few, and the ends of it are carelessly tucked away in the waistband of his dark jeans. His usually perfectly molded blonde hair is ruffled and tufts stick out in different directions, as if someone had been running their fingers through it all night long, and that alone makes him so angry that it wasn't him that did it and yet so turned on that it makes his head spin. God, my best friend is a work of art. 

However, there's something ... off about the young man tonight that Sully can't put his finger on yet, and it doesn't help that Artie's sudden outburst has clouded his senses even more. He doesn't know what to do. Abasi does.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest, and SJ can practically hear the way the Egyptian's eyebrows lift in an impish way. Slowly, his smooth hand lifts the hem of the boy's shirt and lays on the bare skin of his waist, his thumb running circles over the pale skin. Abasi's hand is hot against his flesh, and he can feel himself melt underneath the touch. The molly in Sullivan's system isn't going in his favor at all, and it's a bloody shame that the drug has made him a slave to the lust he feels. He wants to succumb to the feeling, but he can't because Arthur is standing right there and Abasi's hands on him makes him feel guilty even though he's done nothing to deserve the feeling. 

Don't I though, he thinks to himself. Because I know why 'Basi is doing this, he's only doing this to get a rise out of him. Abasi has always liked to play with his food before he ate.