Revelry
Author:© WebNovel
Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Stephen Hunt, being just drunk enough to catch the attractive hotel bartender’s eye and mournfully inquire, “Do you even know what dayit is?” was nevertheless not so drunk that he did not immediately regret the existence of words.
All words. Every word in the world. His scholarly research words, which he was nervous about sharing with others in the morning. His ex-boyfriend’s words, which hurt like broken rainbows inside his chest. Words in general.
But most specifically his own words, just now. Opening conversation. With a stranger. An adorable American stranger. One he’d just asked—entirely randomly, no less—about a holiday that only a scholar steeped in classical history would even recall.
A gift-giving, lavish, cheerfully vibrant holiday. None of which applied in Stephen’s case. Not now.
He tried not to think about holidays. Or incongruities. Or his own idiocy. He drank more beer
The bartender, evidently not put off by tipsy Oxford-accented melancholy, came over to smile at him. The bartender looked like everything Stephen had imagined Southern California to be, tanned and golden and sapphire-eyed and muscular in the way of surfers and swimmers; in concession to the December season, he’d stuck an astonishingly colorful Christmas tree pin onto his shirt, just above his name tag, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up, showing off smooth sunkissed forearms, and Stephen tried not to look and kept looking regardless.
He wondered how that sunshine skin would feel, would taste. A fleeting wonder, and impossible: so very distant from his own skinny pale height, brown hair and brown eyes and clumsy academic lecturer’s elbows.
“Hey,” the bartender said. “You’re here for the conference, right? That historical society of whatever? And I feel like the answer ought to be, it’s my lucky day, but I’m pretty sure you’re not actually going for the pick-up line here.” His name tag announced his name to be Brian. His smile, amid reflections of twinkling lights and palm trees and holidays in San Diego, held a surprising amount of kindness. The kindness lingered in blue eyes, in the way they watched Stephen’s face, genuinely waiting for the reply.
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said helplessly, lost to those eyes. “Yes, I am—I mean here for the conference, not that I’m sorry—oh, no, not that I’m not that too—oh, never mind. Don’t let me bother you.”
Brian glanced around the bar. Southern California warmth, unobtrusive hotel business happening at the check-in desk, visiting academics in sandals and reindeer jumpers, and a menu announcing something called a mistletoe margarita all collectively shrugged and did not require his attention.
Stephen stared desperately at his own mostly-empty pint. American beer, it’d been. Darker and more intense and stronger than he was used to. And unhelpful as far as rescue.
“So,” Brian said. “What day isit?”
“What?”
“You did ask.” With one more smile, weightless and effervescent. “Or do I have to guess?”
The adorable American bartender couldn’t be flirting with him. Only being kind. Had to be that. Stephen’s heart, holding the echo of Eric’s words of four weeks and three days previously—you care about ancient books and dead people more than my career, if you loved me you’d make more of an effort to support me, you never loved me and I don’t love you—flinched from hope.
He told the pint glass, not looking up, “You wouldn’t be interested. Classical history. Obscure holiday. Not important.” That historical society of whatever, Brian had said. Insignificant. Not memorable. Interchangeable. Nothing that mattered.
“Really?” Brian paused to draw and slide another beer for someone else, down the bar; came back. “A holiday? Which one? And I know it’s not the Society of Whatever, I just couldn’t remember the name. But you don’t mean Christmas or any of the obvious ones, right?”
“No…it’s…you truly don’t need to take care of me.” He glanced up, found those blue-horizon eyes watching him, stumbled over syllables. “I’m fine.”
“I’m asking because I aminterested.” Brian leaned elbows on the bar, grinned at him, lit up the room. “And because you need taking care of. Tell me about your obscure classical holiday. Greek, Roman, something else? Also, hi, I’m Brian, who’re you?”
“Oh,” Stephen said. “Er, Stephen. Hunt. Stephen Hunt. Doctor Hunt, technically, but—oh, no, I’m saying it all wrong, I’m doing the conference session introduction bit. It’s Stephen. Sorry.”
“Stephen,” Brian said obediently, though he looked rather as if he wanted to laugh. The corners of his lips kept quirking up.
“And…to answer your question…it is Roman, in fact. How did you guess—oh, no, never mind—” That’d sounded insulting. Or had it? He no longer knew.
He’d never been good at small talk; he’d grown even worse since Eric had moved out, taking all the energy and drama in the world along with movie posters and citrus-scented moisturizer. He knew as much.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone