Chapter Text
The bass from downstairs thudded faintly through the floorboards, like the heartbeat of the party Vance wasn’t allowed to join. He lay sprawled across his bed, one arm thrown over his stomach, the other loosely cradling his mug of herbal tea.
Candles flickered across the posters plastered over his walls — Black Sabbath, Ramones, Led Zeppelin — shadows and gold light pooling around the soft edges of his room. His curls were tied up, a few escaping to brush his cheek, and the low hum of the record player filled the air.
The pills on the bedside table rattled faintly when the bass jumped. He eyed them, jaw tightening. He’d kept his promise — stay upstairs, stay calm. Do the damn responsible thing for once.
Then came the creak of the door. Bruce stumbled in, rubbing the back of his neck, the smell of cheap beer following him. His eyes flicked up, surprise flashing across his face when he saw Vance sitting there.
“Oh— uh, sorry, man. Didn’t think anyone was up here. Place is a damn zoo.”
Vance raised an eyebrow, saying nothing at first.
Bruce lingered in the doorway awkwardly, taking in the room: the records, the candlelight, the wall of orange prescription bottles.
“You, uh… mind if I hide out here a sec?” Bruce asked. “Can’t hear myself think down there.”
Vance gestured lazily with his mug. “Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks, man. Thought this was, uh, a spare room or something. Didn’t mean to interrupt whoever’s little séance you got goin’ on.”
Vance lifted his eyes from the record player, one brow arching, but said nothing. The low growl of guitars and a guttural voice filled the quiet between them.
Bruce leaned back against the doorframe, looking around the dimly lit room like he was inspecting some weird exhibit.
“Man, whoever owns this room’s gotta be a real headcase. All these creepy band posters? Jesus. Probably some dropout freak who thinks noise counts as music.” He nodded toward the record player with a scoff. “This crap sounds like a dying lawnmower, dude. I mean, seriously — how do people listen to this? What even is this? Sounds like a guy getting possessed through a tin can.”
Vance didn’t even look offended — just slightly entertained. “You really got a way with words, huh?”
Bruce laughed, taking it as a compliment. “Yeah, well, not everyone’s got taste. Me, I like real music — Fleetwood Mac, Eagles, Elton John. Something you can actually play at a party without summoning demons.”
Vance tilted his head, deadpan. “Yeah. You look like you listen to Fleetwood Mac.”
Bruce grinned, missing the jab completely. “Exactly, man. You get it.”
Vance just smirked to himself, shaking his head.
Bruce’s gaze wandered, landing on the collection of pill bottles by the bed. He squinted, chuckled under his breath. “Jeez, whoever lives here must be a real junkie. That’s a hell of a stash.”
Vance’s expression didn’t change — only his eyes, sharpening just slightly. “Guess they’re not big on self-control, huh?”
Bruce added, smirking as he sat down on the edge of the bed uninvited. “Guess not.”
Vance said evenly, setting down his mug. “You always this mouthy when you drink?”
Bruce laughed. “Only when I’m having a good time.” His grin softened a little as he looked at Vance properly — at the hair, the sharp cheekbones, the soft light catching on his eyes. Bruce wandered further in, glancing at the comics and vinyls.
“Didn’t see you downstairs. You from around here? Don’t think I’ve seen you at school.”
“That’s ‘cause I’m not there much,” Vance said, voice smooth but low. “Usually at the arcade. Pinball.”
Bruce’s face lit up like he’d just connected two dots.
“Pinball, huh? Like that nutcase — what’s his name — Pinball Vance Hopper?” He laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Yeah, that guy’s a total psycho. Beats up any kid that even breathes near the machine.”
Vance blinked once. “That so?”
“Oh yeah,” Bruce went on, completely oblivious. “Big dude, blond hair. Heard he’s got a temper like a bomb. Total freak. Probably juiced on stuff like whatever’s in those bottles over there.” He jerked his thumb toward Vance’s pill stash, grinning like it was a joke.
Vance’s jaw flexed once, his voice quiet. “You don’t say.”
Bruce hesitated at the tone, finally catching that something in the air had shifted.
“…You, uh, know him or somethin’?”
Vance’s mouth curved, sharp and humorless. “Not whoever you're yapping about.”
Bruce laughed weakly, still not getting it. "I heard he broke some kids leg after he bumped into his pinball machine and tried to stab him for interrupting his game."
Bruce laughed nervously, trying to recover, and then—maybe because of the beer, or the way the candlelight hit that smirk—he leaned in. Vance’s eyes met his, cool and steady.
“Well, he’s got nothing on you,” he said lowly. “Didn’t think Griffin had such good-looking friends.”
Vance raised a brow. “Careful, baseball star. You’re diggin’ a hole.”
Bruce smiled crookedly, half-daring, half-dizzy. “Then maybe I’ll drag you in with me.”
Bruce’s breath was warm with beer and nerves. He didn’t even think before closing the space between them. The kiss landed awkwardly — more like a stumble than a plan — yet he didn’t pull back, even as a small voice in his head whispered that this was wrong, that he shouldn’t be doing this. He shoved it down, letting the alcohol drown the guilt.
Vance froze, caught off guard, but the stillness didn’t last long. His lips moved with quiet patience, steady and careful — not forceful, not hungry — and Bruce felt a pang of envy for his calm certainty. *Why can he do this without overthinking?* Bruce wondered, heart hammering, a flicker of panic tugging at him even as he pressed closer.
Bruce steadied himself with a palm against Vance’s chest. The record spun, guitar crackling through dust and static, candlelight painting gold across Vance’s hair. His other hand brushed Vance’s jaw, tentative, then firmer when he realized he wasn’t being pushed away.
*God, I shouldn’t like this. I’m not supposed to feel this way,* he thought, as the warmth of Vance’s sweater seeped through to his skin, and the steady rise and fall of Vance’s chest made the world shrink down to this moment.
Vance’s breath hitched, a quiet sound trembling between them. He leaned in just slightly, deliberate. Bruce’s hand drifted into Vance’s curls at the hairline, brushing the soft strands. The contact drew a low, almost inaudible sigh from Vance, mingling with the static hiss of the record.
Bruce’s chest tightened — desire clashing with guilt — but he couldn’t stop himself. Vance’s eyes, bright blue in the amber light, held a faint haze, subtle and almost imperceptible. It was like something had been tempered, restrained, something simmering just beneath the surface — a quiet intensity Bruce couldn’t name.
The kiss deepened, fractionally, blurring the line between thought and impulse. Bruce knew this was crossing every line he had learned to follow, yet he couldn’t resist the pull of Vance, the gravity of his golden curls, the softness of him beneath the harsh candlelight.
When he finally pulled back just enough to look, Vance’s eyes were half-lidded, bright and unflinching under the amber glow. Something in him snapped, reckless and raw. With a small, deliberate motion, Bruce pressed him back to the headboard, kissing him again, letting the moment hang — soft, intense, unspoken. Guilt twisted alongside desire, but in that instant, it didn’t matter.
Vance sat perfectly still after, piercing eyes lingering on Bruce, as if trying to decide whether it had really just happened. Bruce pulled back, breath uneven, heart loud, thinking *I shouldn’t… but I can’t stop.*
Then the door burst open, and the world’s noise came back — laughter, shouting, and the clatter of feet from the party downstairs.
“BRUCE! Have you lost your damn mind?!” Bruce froze. Griffin stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and furious.
“Ugh, Vance, you minger! You couldn’t keep your dirty hands off my guests for one night?!”
Vance groaned, rolling Bruce off him effortlessly. “Griff, for the love of—”
“There’s a fight in the kitchen!” Griffin shouted. “Moose is about to kill someone! I know you promised you’d stay up here outta trouble but I need you, please!”
Bruce sat bolt upright, his face pale. “Wait—Vance? As in Vance Hopper?!”
The blonde sighed, pushing off the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Congratulations, you cracked the code.” He peeled off his sweater, revealing a lean, muscular frame marked with bruises and old scars, the kind that spoke of too many fights. As he tugged the fabric over his head, his hair fell loose in a wild cascade, catching the candlelight.
Bruce could only stare.
Vance wiped his mouth like it absolved any trace of Bruce as he headed for the door. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Yamamoto.”
“Yamada,” Bruce corrected automatically, still dazed.
“Whatever,” Vance said, brushing past him. “Try not to get lost on your way back downstairs.”
And with that, he was gone — leaving Bruce sitting in the candlelight, heart pounding, trying to figure out how he’d just gone from mocking the school's local delinquent to kissing him.