Chapter 9: The Vault, Again
Three days had passed since Stefan had swallowed his own hesitation and let Diego teach him what a man's mouth could do. Now walking into The Vault, the scent and sounds wrapped around them like a warm blanket. The dark brick and polished wood, the amber light all felt like home. Stanley looked up from the bar, wiped his hands on his apron, and gave Diego a slow, knowing nod and smile. Diego gave back a thumbs up.
"Back corner's yours," Stanley said, sliding two plates across the wood. Steak and eggs, steam rising. A bottle of whiskey followed, glasses already set.
Diego took the bottle by the neck and led Stefan to the corner booth, the one with the high back and the shadowed light. He waited until Stefan sat, then slid in beside him instead of across. Their thighs pressed together along the length of the bench.
"Been a while since I brought anyone here twice," Diego said, pouring two fingers into each glass.
Stefan's throat worked. He watched Diego's hands, those big capable hands, wrap around the glass. "Why me?"
Diego's palm landed on his thigh under the table, heavy and warm. He squeezed once, then let his fingers drift higher, tracing the inseam of Stefan's jeans all the way up to his growing bulge. The bar was busy, the booth dim enough that no one could see, but Stefan's pulse hammered anyway. The fact it was in a public space made it that much more intoxicating.
"Because you didn't run," Diego said, voice low near his ear.
Stefan's breath caught as Diego's fingers brushed repeatedly over his bulge. He reached for the whiskey and took a sip, partly to hide the embarrassed joy on his face. Seeing that, Diego leaned closer, letting his lips brush Stefan's temple. "Ready to show them what you learned?"
Stefan's throat worked. He held Diego's gaze, and then he nodded, slow, leaning in until his lips brushed the curve of Diego's ear. The warmth of his breath raised goosebumps along Diego's neck.
"Yeah," Stefan said, voice rough. "Show them."
Diego's hand tightened on his thigh. He laughed, low and pleased, and pulled back just enough to look at him. The whiskey glass sat forgotten between them. Stanley moved behind the bar, a shadow in the amber light, and Diego's grin turned wolfish.
"Good man." He lifted his glass, clinked it against Stefan's. "To the back corner of The Vault."
Stefan drank. The heat spread through his chest like the press of Diego's palm through his jeans. He set the glass down and, without looking away from Diego, slid his own hand onto Diego's thigh, mirroring the gesture.
"Okay," Stefan said. "So what do we do now?"
Diego's fingers curled around Stefan's wrist, thumb stroking the pulse point there. "We eat. We drink. We let Stanley wonder exactly what I taught you." He bit into a piece of steak, chewing slow, watching Stefan. "And then, when the place thins out, I take you home."
Stefan picked up his fork. His hand was steady. "To your place? And then?"
Diego's smile softened into something warmer. "Then I show you what I learned from watching you learn."
They ate. The steaks were perfect, pink in the middle, and Diego cut Stefan's for him once, fork to fork, like it was nothing. Stefan let him. The whiskey loosened something in his shoulders, and Diego's hand stayed on his thigh the whole meal, thumb tracing lazy circles just below his inseam. Every few minutes it drifted higher, then retreated, a slow tide.
"You're blushing," Diego said, mouth against the rim of his glass.
"I'm eating steak in a bar with a man's hand down my pants." Stefan kept his eyes on his plate. "Blushing is the reasonable response."
Diego laughed, the loud one, the one that turned heads at the bar. Two guys at the counter glanced over, and Stefan felt his ears go hot. Diego didn't move his hand at all.
"Let them look," he murmured.
Footsteps came up behind them. Stanley, clearing a path through the amber light with two small plates balanced on his forearm. He set them down without asking: a slice of dense chocolate cake each, a shared dish of whipped cream between them, the whole thing still chilled from the cooler.
"On the house," Stanley said. He straightened his apron, looked at Diego, then at Stefan, then back at Diego. "You know, Diego's been coming here nine years. Ordered the same thing every time, sat in that same corner."
"Stan," Diego warned, grinning.
"Nine years." Stanley tapped the table twice with his knuckle. "First time he ever brought somebody back twice, I made cake." He winked, slow and deliberate, at Stefan. "Congratulations. You're tradition now."
He walked back to the bar, and Diego looked after him, shaking his head, but his ears had gone a little dark too. Stefan picked up his fork.
"He's not going to let me live this down, is he?"
Diego dragged his knife through the cake and offered Stefan the bite across his knuckles. "No," he said. "Neither am I."
Stefan took the bite off Diego's knuckles, chocolate and salt and the faint warmth of his skin. He chewed slow, watching Diego watch him, and something in his chest relaxed its final grip. The cake was good. The whiskey was better. The man beside him was everything.
They finished the cake between them, fork passing back and forth, Stanley's knowing eyes a warm weight in the amber dark. Diego settled the tab with a wave, no money changing hands, just a nod between old friends. Then his hand closed around Stefan's, fingers lacing, and he led him out of the booth.
The night air hit them outside, cool and clean. The street was quiet, dotted with the glow of a few late cars. Diego turned to face him, silhouetted against the bar's lit window, and his free hand came up to cup Stefan's jaw.
"Ready to go home?"
Stefan looked at him. The man who had kissed him in his own doorway. The man who had taught him what surrender felt like. The man who had watched him stumble and had never once looked away. And he kissed him, right there on the sidewalk, mouth open against Diego's, one hand fisted in the open collar of his shirt.
Diego made a sound, surprise and pleasure, and kissed back. They stood there until a passing car honked, and Stefan laughed against his mouth, pulled back just far enough to speak.
"No more flinching," he said. "No more running."
Diego's grin was bright as the bar light behind them. "That's my guy." He pulled Stefan in by the belt loop, pressed their foreheads together. "Come on. Let me show you what I learned from watching you learn."
Stefan let himself be led. For the first time in his life, the wanting and the being wanted were the same thing.
The End