There's nothing more than a brush of their shoulders as Edward steps up to the bar, but every inch of his body burns at the contact. He sees the guy's head snap up to glance at him, his eyes wide, that thumb still in his mouth. Edward pretends he doesn't notice his attention, leaning forward with his arms on the bar. He has to give the other man credit - he tries to be subtle as he checks Edward out, glancing over his tight black denim and tighter shirt of the same midnight shade. Edward knows he's slender, verging on slight in places, but he also plays enough sport to fill out his frame with lean muscle.
It's rare for him to approach anyone. Usually they come to him, whether at parties like this or just out at a regular bar, and he decides whether he's desperate enough to want their company. Deep down, he's always desperate, but not for them. For something more, for a connection that ties him down to the earth and stops him spinning out like a wayward satellite.
The guy isn't looking at him anymore, not overtly at least. Edward can feel his stare though, can almost taste his longing.
It matches his own.
He looks to his left, lets his eyes run slowly over the figure next to him. It's just as big as Edward thought, maybe even broader up close. He can see tight, hard chest muscle pressing against the fabric of the man's shirt, the very slight hint of a softer belly underneath. There are veins in the man's thick forearms that he wants to trace with his tongue, follow them all the way up the bicep and underneath the soft cotton of a sleeve.
The man next to him shifts even more uncomfortably than he did before, that thumb so far into his mouth Edward can't see it anymore.
"I'm Edward," he says, because that display of the other man's discomfort makes something inside him need to soothe.
"Gnngg," the other man responds, maybe forgetting the thumb's in his mouth. Edward likes that, proof it's not a ploy meant to entice. He watches as the other man pulls his hand hastily away from his mouth, expression pained and cheeks pink. "Garrett."
"Hi, Garrett." He licks his lips, wishing he was licking Garrett's swollen ones instead. "Did you like what you saw?"
He watches the big man in front of him blush harder, fidgeting again, and he thinks teasing Garrett might be his new favorite thing.
"I… sorry, I…" Garrett flails his hands in front of him like he can capture words from the air. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Edward reaches an arm out and grabs hold of Garrett's fist before it can slam into the almost-full glass beside him. He rubs his thumb over the man's pulse point, feeling the rapid beat against his skin. "Relax."
He's gratified when he feels that pulse settle slowly, his thumb stroking over the soft skin of Garrett's wrist.
"Sorry," Garrett says again, eyes back on the bar. "I don't really know how to talk to—" He laughs, gritty and bitter. "I don't know how to talk, I guess."
"You don't have to talk," Edward says softly. "I can just look again, if you want."
Garrett grips onto his wrist with the hand still in Edward's grasp, his expression twisted. He won't meet Edward's stare, so Edward scans back over the man's torso, down to strong thighs.
Garrett's hand on his wrist tightens unbearably, clamping down like a shackle. "Edward, I should tell you—"
But Edward doesn't hear any more. His breath is chased from his lungs by the sharp sting of Garrett's nails digging into his skin like little shards of glass.
And the sight of Garrett's leg, resting on the bar stool ledge, and the empty, baggy fall of denim on the side where his other leg should be.
So... thoughts?