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Summary: Martin preferred to drink alone at parties, until Benedict.

Afterparty

Martin lifts his tumbler of whiskey off the bar and turns around in his stool, scanning the crowd with mild annoyance, he's late as usual, and the others are early, as usual.

At one point he spies the mop of curls and a strange wave of relief washes over him. Martin is unable to stop himself from grinning on his own. There he is.

He watches Benedict nod his head vigorously to something and Martin cranes his neck to find him talking animatedly to Steven and Andrew. Andrew is laughing and Steven is being…well, Steven and smiling rather indulgently at the two of them. A particularly groovy number, that Martin doesn't recognize, could be heard playing in the background. Probably Mark's choice, he's the only one with outlandish tastes, he thinks to himself and grins into his drink.

That said, he should probably go join them, congratulate Andrew on his Hamlet stint. He empties his third consecutive drink and is about to get down from his stool in order to go join them when, at that exact moment, Benedict turns his head, almost telepathically spots him, and his laughter subsides into one of his full, fond smiles. He waves at Martin from across the room, before excusing himself and weaving his way through the crowd to the bar. Martin settles back onto his stool, watching the throng of people stop Benedict to congratulate him and make small talk. He turns briefly to order for the two of them.

"Drinking alone again?" his deep voice undercutting the loud sound, that voice, Christ, comes through, only a little distorted by the noise. Martin found that he couldn't really take his eyes off of him-all angles in his sharp black bow-tie and suit contrasted by the soft fullness of a mouth that is as exquisite as the man himself. And before he can answer, Benedict adds "Mark was looking for you not a moment ago, probably something about a radio show..."

"Oh yes. He said he'd see me later about it."

When their drinks were served by a beaming bartender, who briefly interrupted their conversation in the process, Martin rolled his eyes at his obviously starstruck attitude which Benedict noticed with a soft chuckle.

"Admit it, you actually enjoy it," he said, still chuckling.

"I'm sorry, who is the fucking star here? Of course, I bloody enjoy it." Martin replied when he left them alone again.

Martin slid Benedict's drink towards him at the same time that Benedict reached out for it and their hands brushed.

The music suddenly became quieter for Martin, and he heard his heart beating in his ears. He wasn't certain why his body responded as violently as it did since they have never shied away from expressing physical affection before.

Martin couldn't, for the life of him, work out what exactly had been so funny about his comment. He looked on, frowning over his ninth? eleventh? drink. Oh, screw that. Mark had joined them, and he seemed to agree with him.

"Steven and I were sticking with him," Mark was saying, "we would have moved ship if BBC hadn't green-flagged him."

Steven was nodding sagely, he was a quiet drunk, it seemed.

Andrew and Rupert seemed to be discussing something and occasionally turned to include him, to which Martin gave vague answers.

He then looked at Benedict, who was doubling over with frank laughter-was he laughing at something he said?-over the drink clutched in his large hands, and he fixated on those fingers, paler around the knuckles tightened against the red of the wine.

Beautiful

He thought and immediately shook his head wondering how drunk he must be.

But Benedict had already turned around and abruptly stopped laughing at whatever Mark had said. He was looking at Martin with a peculiar intensity in his uncannily bright eyes, the same eyes he found so disconcertingly attractive.

And he stared right back,

without comprehending why or if it meant anything, he stared because it gave him an excuse to look at the man without worrying about media vultures and he stared because, Christ, was there a more beautiful person in this entire damned planet?

And Martin admits to himself something he had put away ever since they wrapped up shooting for their show's second season.

Maybe. He thinks, melancholically. Maybe in another lifetime.