disclaimer: without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
author's notes: written for anon, prompt: 1950s. please note that any historical mentions came from a quick Google search! inspired by a storyline from the short lived The Playboy Club.
Lavender;;
"Don't go," Sebastian says, standing tall in front of the open window, a picture of withheld beauty–a cigarette dangles from his lips, its smoke chasing away a more incriminating scent, Sebastian's chest still gleaming sweaty from their hours-long dance of love making.
He slips his shirt back over his shoulders, which had lain neatly folded on the chair next to the bathroom door. "You know I have to," he says, even though it leaves a repetitive taste in his mouth, bitter like dark chocolate, and he wishes all the hurtful words in the entire world could die out. But he's lost count of all the words that do prove hurtful, that dig underneath his skin to settle in his bones, making them a lot harder to carry.
The initial words had been easier, the day Quinn introduced them at a meeting of the Mattachine Society, one shy and one confident 'Hello' interspersed with heedless flirtation in the comfort of knowing no one around would judge them, not when Sebastian playfully caressed a hand down his arm or pulled at his bowtie, not when he reached on tiptoe to whisper something in Sebastian's ear and lingered there, bathing in the sparse hint of Sebastian's cologne.
What followed ran on autopilot; Sebastian showed up at the club where he played the piano and bought him and Quinn a few rounds, and he'd even brought a friend, Santana, to stave off any suspicion. They had to be careful, Sebastian was the son of a state's attorney and got recognized at the popular clubs, mostly because he frequented them so often. He brought Sebastian and Santana back to his place, and while Santana and Quinn talked over two glasses of scotch in the kitchen, Sebastian had his way with him in the bedroom.
Since that night, whenever Quinn headed out to her acting class, Sebastian would drop by–they never wasted time on any pleasantries, their time together was limited and they made every second count, marked each other in places they knew clothing would provide cover, kissed and bit and scratched, kept quiet so the neighbors wouldn't hear, but always, always, held each other through the daunting heartbreak of an era of unjust persecution.
He loved Sebastian, and Sebastian loved him, and the realization it could take all but a whisper to tear it all down made them cling to each other even harder.
They only ended up at Sebastian's place when Quinn had friends over.
"Yeah." Sebastian nods, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill, wandering over languid but with purpose, that seductive tease in his step, pants clinging too low to his hips to be socially acceptable.
Sebastian leaves no room for question, his hands are on his face and his lips demand a kiss, deep and complete as if the bruises on his lips must serve as a warning sign for any other potential suitors (stay back, he's mine), but only serve as a damnable brand for those who wish to stifle their desires.
"Stop," he begs, but holds on for dear life, his lips claiming an equally damning mark, understanding all too well that when Sebastian says 'Don't go' he means they're being too complacent towards the ruling hierarchy, they're hiding behind the very regulations that keep them oppressed and if they don't make a stand nothing will ever change. The reason Sebastian doesn't say it is because so little has changed, but at least they've created a safe place for people like them to be who they are. And neither of them could bear to lose the other.
"Back to your lavender marriage," Sebastian whispers.
"Don't call it that," he sighs, longing for Sebastian's marks on every inch of his body, tattooed into his skin permanently, undermining the very thing he's spent years building. "Quinn and I are what we are."
Sebastian stares down into his eyes, asking for words neither of them ever say. "And what are we?"
He takes a deep breath, folding his arms around Sebastian to hold him close, feel every inch of the man he loves against every inch of him, an affirmation he needs time and time again. "Surviving," he answers, but knows full well it's an insufficient answer to the magnitude in Sebastian's request. In a perfect world they'd be boyfriends, he wouldn't be Quinn's husband, and Quinn and her acting teacher Rachel could be girlfriends. But that's not the world they live in, not yet, maybe not ever, so they settle for this, get by with sweet nonsense whispered in secret, lingering glances they hope no one else but others like them can decipher, hours spend in each other's arms before returning to the lie that is their public life.
Sebastian's lips linger against his, as do his hands on his body, like he's attempting to memorize the lines and curves that make him Blaine Anderson before society forces him to become someone else again–Sebastian makes sure he never forgets exactly who he is, what he wants, and where his heart lies.
"I'll see you soon," Sebastian says, and kisses his forehead, foregoing an I love you that only ever gets uttered in bed, never when they're saying goodbye.
"See you later," he answers in kind, while his heart beats a reciprocal I love you too.
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