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Pac respects his town’s gay club — quite a lot, actually, and for many reasons. However, the reason why he doesn’t go far outweighs any positive feelings he has toward the establishment.
“Melissa maldita,” the engineer grumbles under his breath. His day was nothing short of exhausting, and he’d been more than ready to settle down on the couch, eat whatever leftovers were in the fridge, and play video games with Mike.
But then he got a text in all caps with several crying emojis, and, well…Pac’s never been able to say no to his older sister.
So here he is, in jeans and his ratty blue hoodie, holding a pink sequined duffle bag in one hand. Honestly, how could she even forget something like this? The thing was massive — he swears she must have it filled with rocks.
‘Or maybe stilettos are just that heavy,’ he muses.
He should’ve sent Mike. The architect was always grateful for an excuse to visit any of his old projects, and the club is one of his proudest. The giant rainbow mural stretching across the building’s face would be tacky if it wasn’t for how strangely striking it was, having been done by a collection of local street artists Mike hired.
And yeah, the flashing lights might seem like a touch too much, but Pac remembers the night Mike kept him up rambling about how the light sequences highlighted different aspects of the building’s old factory aesthetic, and Pac still can’t claim he really sees the effect, but knowing how much Mike cared about it is enough to get his approval.
Pac shakes his head to refocus his thoughts. Right. Melissa. Bag. Where…shit, where should he go?
Clearly he shouldn’t get in the already-lengthy line coming from the front door; he wouldn’t get her stuff to her in time for her show, which is presumably soon.
Biting his lip, Pac scans the exterior yet again — and then, someone in line shuffles away to reveal a man so beautiful Pac has to blink to make sure he’s not dreaming.
He’s muscular, clean-shaven, and has a serious expression on his face. His shirt, which is long-sleeved and clings delectably to his arms, is black, and it takes a while for Pac’s blue-screened-mind to register the matching black earpiece.
And despite the base-level attraction that’s hit him far too quickly, Pac brightens. The man works security! He should be able to help him get back to Melissa.
Someone brushes past Pac, and the engineer nearly trips over nothing, clutching tighter onto the bag. Okay, new plan! Go talk to the very handsome security guard without making a fool of himself. Pac nods, face setting with determination, then steps forward.
It’s tough to get to him. The Friday night crowd is picking up, and admittedly, Pac isn’t as aware of his surroundings as he should be, his eyes too locked on the man next to the door. He can already feel his cheeks burning, and Pac curses his shyness. But he gets within a few steps of the man, stopping awkwardly on the other side of the velvet rope, and it only takes a moment of him lingering before narrowed eyes meet his.
The security guard opens his mouth to speak. Nothing could have prepared Pac for what would come out.
“You need somethin’?” the man asks, and oh, Pac has to stop himself from stumbling back, his knees going weak. His voice is smooth and low, American with a sort of twang to it that he can’t identify, but if he wasn’t already head over heels, he sure is now.
He must take too long to respond. The guard’s eyebrows begin to raise with increasing judgement, and Pac remembers oh yeah he needs to speak.
“Y-Yes!” Pac stammers. “I’m— I’m Melissa’s brother. I’m here to, uh, to drop off her bag? She left it at home, and, well, she texted me, and—”
The guard crosses his arms. It’s hard for Pac to keep his eyes up when he sees the fabric of the man’s shirt stretch across his chest like it’s struggling to stay together. Distantly, Pac notices how one shoulder sits lower than the other, like he’s weighed down on one side.
“Nice try,” the man scoffs, and Pac blinks, brows furrowing. Upon seeing his confusion, the guard waves a hand (which is oddly gloved when the other is not) dismissively. “That excuse’s been tried before. None of the dancers are expecting visitors tonight. Get on outta here before I hafta put you on the blacklist.”
In an instant, the engineer is flustered. He brings the bag forward, as though its pinkness and overall femininity will somehow be convincing.
“I-I promise, I’m not trying to be a— a creep!” Pac cries. Then, his brain finally comes back online, and he reaches into his back pocket for his phone. “Hold on, let me just call her, and she can tell you that—”
The man’s face darkens, and he takes a step forward, palms held outward. “Alright, now, let’s just calm down, okay? I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands in my field of view.”
Pac sputters. “But…then how—? I don’t—? Ugh,” he groans, and he slaps one hand to his forehead. “Please, I promise I’m just here to give Melissa her bag. You can even take it from me if you want, but you need to do it now or she’s gonna—”
His useless rambling gets cut off by the security guard holding up a single finger, asking for him to wait. Pac’s mouth shuts with a clack, and then he’s back to standing there awkwardly, hands fidgeting, as the stupidly stunning man mutters something into the mic by his mouth.
The lights above, flashing in a rotating sequence of pink, blue, and green, shine down onto the man’s bald head like some sort of pastel halo. Maybe Mike did have a point about the lights showing off nice features, he thinks.
There’s the tut of a tongue, and Pac jolts back to attention.
“I, ah,” the security guard says, glancing off to the side. Then, he waves a hand toward the door. “If you’ll follow me, please.”
The engineer can’t fight back the panic that grips him. Is he going to be taken back to some dark room where they put the creeps? Are they going to call the cops on him? Meu Deus, Mike’s gonna have to bail him out, and then—
The handsome man coughs, pulling him out of his spiral. When Pac looks up, he realizes that the guard appears to be…grimacing, almost.
“Sorry, Melissa just sent over the message clearing you,” he says. “I’m bringing you back to her, not, uh— you’re not in trouble or anything like that.”
It takes a second to process. “Oh!” Pac replies intelligently. He steps forward, swallowing. “Yes, ah, I’ll follow wherever you go. I mean, shit, I didn’t—” His face heats. “You know what I mean. Yes. Let’s go.”
And be still his beating heart, the security guard cracks a grin. It’s humored and it’s broad and he has nice teeth, and is that a weird thing to notice?
Pac is sure he must have stars in his eyes as he follows the man (who he’s now realizing is much taller than he thought) into the club. The music isn’t ear-shattering just yet, with it being early in the evening. Pac almost gets distracted by all the decorations, summer-themed and flashy in a way that shouldn’t work but does, and nearly runs into the guard’s back when he stops unexpectedly.
It’s only then that Pac realizes he’s at an unmarked door that is painted to blend in with the back wall. A card is swiped, and a lock clicks as it slides away. The guard waves for him to go before him, so Pac does, scrambling past and holding onto the bag like it’s a lifeline.
The moment the door shuts behind the other man, the music fades to a dull thrum, and Pac thoughtlessly lets out a sigh of relief.
“Music’s too loud, isn’t it?”
Pac whirls around, heart catching in his throat when he sees the guard’s appraising look. “Oh! It, well…yeah, kinda,” he admits, shoulders hiking up. “This isn’t really my…scene, I guess you could say.”
The guard shrugs. He motions for Pac to follow him down the hall. “There’s a reason I prefer to be stationed outside. Hearing’s already bad enough. Name’s Fit, by the way.”
“Fitch,” Pac repeats, so awestruck that his tongue betrays him, Brazilian accent taking over momentarily. But Fit doesn’t seem to mind; if anything, he looks intrigued, his head tilting sideways in a manner that’s too cute for a man so muscular, and—
“Oh!” the engineer coughs. “I’m— and I’m Pac. Melissa’s youngest brother.”
That small grin is back on Fit’s face, warm and quirked a little to the side. “Nice to meet you. And, uh,” he glances away, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “My apologies for gettin’ all gruff there on ya. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“Oh, no! No, no, no,” Pac laughs, “No I’m— if anything, I’m glad you acted the way you did. Tells me that my sister’s safe. Not,” he winces, “not that I ever doubted it! It’s just, ah, yeah,” he finishes lamely.
Thankfully, Fit chuckles (and Pac has to try to not swoon). “Still, I’m sorry for it. I’m meant to scare off the bad guys, not people like you.”
Pac shrugs a shoulder. “Eh, you didn’t know who I was. You were just doing your job.”
“And you?”
“Hm?” the Brazilian blinks.
“What’s your job?” Fit asks.
For some reason, the simple question has Pac blushing again. “Ah, well, it’s really not that impressive—”
“That immediately tells me it must be something impressive,” Fit jokes.
Pac laughs too, and he swears he’s about to string together a coherent sentence, but then they’re stopping at an open door and he gets nearly bowled over — by a person and by the strong scent of perfume and hairspray.
“Peqi!!!” Melissa whines shrilly in his ear. “¿Dónde estabaaaaas? I have to go on in thirty minutes!!”
Rolling his eyes, Pac says, “Seems like plenty of time to me.”
His older sister scoffs. She snatches the duffle out of his hands, then stalks over to a stuffed chair and practically rips into the bag. Pac’s former theory proves correct as she begins to produce different pairs of stilettos from the bag, considering each one carefully.
“Can you believe this man?” Melissa says, and that’s when Pac suddenly realizes there are people in the room other than them. At least five other dances, all in different states of dress and preparedness, are her audience as Melissa tsks: “Saying thirty minutes is plenty of time like he’s ever had to get his hair to look as good as mine!”
“Men just don’t get it,” a brunet holding a clipboard speaks up with a shake of her head. She offers Pac a wave and Fit a nod before she returns to whatever it is she’s doing.
His sister tuts. “Not even the gay ones,” she laments, sighing and giving Pac a pointed look.
Immediately, Pac feels his face redden. “I-If you have everything you need, I think I should be going now,” he stammers.
Melissa waves a hand. “Yes, yes, thank you again, Peqi! Te amo muchoooooo!”
“Eu te amo,” Pac grumbles. He turns to leave — only to be met with the wall of muscle that is Fit. Blushing even further, Pac ducks his head and moves to go around the man. “I can find my way back on my own. Sorry for the trouble,” he mumbles.
He only gets about a meter away from the dressing room before he gets stopped. Pac blinks, looking down at his arm and finding a hand around his elbow. On the other end of it is Fit, face pinched and mouth open like he’s about to say something.
For the life of him, Pac doesn’t know what it could be. But he doesn’t have long to wonder.
“PAC!!” another male voice cries.
Both of them turn at the same time. Pac’s face splits into a smile instantly.
“Foolish!” he greets.
Jogging down the hall toward him is an old friend from university — or really, Mike’s old friend from university, as they both studied architecture. But if you’re a friend of Mike’s, then you usually become a friend of Pac’s, and Pac is pretty certain that Foolish would have insisted on befriending him anyways even if that wasn’t the case. It’s just how the man is.
He’s wearing heels that hurt Pac’s feet just looking at them and a bedazzled green pair of underwear that, if memory serves right, is probably a mere string of cloth in the back. Thankfully the front has enough coverage that Pac’s cheeks don’t grow hotter than they already are.
Distantly, Pac feels Fit’s hand fall away from his arm. And then, Foolish is standing before them, all smiles.
“Long time no see!” the male dancer laughs, and when he holds his arms out wide, Pac knows he can’t avoid what’s coming.
He grimaces as he’s pulled into a firm hug. The bare skin, combined with the glitter and sweat and perfume — it’s enough to make his nose wrinkle, but he covers it up by smiling widely when he’s finally released from muscular arms.
Stepping back, Foolish sets his hands on his hips and looks Pac up and down. “Man, it really has been forever! We gotta catch up some time. Or, hey!” he snaps his fingers. “You could come around more often!”
Pac shakes his head, laughing. “Yeah sure. Totally not weird at all seeing my sister on a pole.”
“Oh yeah, forgot about that,” the dancer muses, lips turning down into a frown. Then, just as quickly, he perks back up again. “Just come to my shows, then! I’m sure you’d have a good time,” he says with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“Pshhh,” is Pac’s response, followed by his hands flapping about as though to physically dismiss the idea.
All his floundering gets him is a playful wink, and then, Foolish is walking past him to elbow Fit. “Be nice to him, alright? See you another time, Pac!”
The dancer leaves in a whirlwind similar to how he entered, and Pac can only shake his head in amusement. He thinks he could power the world on Foolish’s energy alone if only he could figure out how to harness it.
“So…”
Pac blinks, then looks up.
Next to him, the security guard’s expression is strangely neutral. “You know Foolish?” Fit asks. The question comes out weird, but Pac can’t place exactly what’s making him think that.
“Everyone knows Foolish,” Pac replies with a half-shrug. Then, he remembers. “Him and Vegetta still together?”
Immediately, the strange stiffness in Fit’s face is replaced by shock. “Him and Vegetta?” he repeats incredulously. “You mean the owner?”
Pac’s lips curl into a little grin. He’s always loved sharing some good fofoca. “Mmhm,” he hums, and then he glances to the side slyly, leaning in like he’s sharing a secret. “They’ve been off and on for a few years, but last I heard things were working out. Although it’s been a while since I heard anything, so…” he trails off, leaving space in case Fit happens to have any updates to share.
Instead, Fit laughs, and it’s the self-deprecating kind (Pac would know). “You’re making me feel like I don’t know shit about my job,” the guard admits.
Feeling a little bold, Pac smiles cheekily and replies, “Well maybe you do need to learn some more shit if you didn’t even know that!”
Fit chuckles lowly, and the Brazilian feels his insides turn warm and gooey. There’s a brief moment where the humor fades, and the man is left staring at him like he’s lost in thought. Then, Fit blinks harshly, as though remembering something.
“You didn’t, ah,” he struggles, “you didn’t get to finish what you were saying. Before. About your job?”
‘Meu Deus, he’s gonna kill me acting like this,’ Pac thinks. Handsome, protective, and considerate? His “little gay heart” as Mike likes to say can only take so much before it melts into a puddle.
“Mechanical engineer,” Pac responds. “Focusing on biomedical prosthetics.”
“Jesus,” Fit wheezes. When Pac tilts his head in confusion, the other man waves a hand. “Sorry, I just wasn’t— I wasn’t expecting something like that. That’s amazing.”
Pac’s heard it a thousand times, that what he does is impressive or incredible. He’s used to brushing it off, his self esteem too low to allow himself to believe someone could actually think so highly of him.
Fit says it like he means it. And Pac finds himself believing it.
At this rate, Pac has given up on hoping his blush isn’t showing and instead is praying that the dim lighting makes it hard to see the redness of his cheeks. “Y-Yeah!” he replies. “It’s pretty cool, makes every day interesting.”
“That sounds like an understatement,” Fit chuckles. Then, his face twists into something a bit more serious. “But um, really, Pac, I mean…” and for some reason, he rolls one shoulder back, “that’s great work, that you do. And very selfless,” Fit tacks on.
And Pac grins. Because for as much as he hates the usual compliments of his work, this is the part that he does enjoy.
“Oh, no, really it was very selfish. But—” the engineer leans down and pulls up his pants leg, revealing gleaming metal, “—I had to start somewhere, right?”
He expects shock. Or a laugh. Or even interest, because some people are quick to bend down and take a closer look at the prosthetic, with it being so advanced and quite literally one of a kind.
Instead, Pac gets to watch how Fit softens. How the tension in his shoulders unravels, how the furrow of his brow smooths, how his mouth drops open the smallest bit in wonder.
Olive eyes are gentle as they look at him, warm in a way they shouldn’t be after knowing each other for mere minutes, and they make Pac’s chest burn.
He has to look away — it’s like staring into the sun. He shoves his pants leg back down and pats off his jeans just to take up more time before he springs up again, thumbing down the hallway.
“Exit is this way, right?” he asks.
Fit blinks. “What? Oh, yeah, it’s—” he clears his throat. “Yeah, follow me.”
‘Gladly.’
The trip through the maze of hallways is silent, but Pac doesn’t mind. It gives him a moment to sort through the scattered mess of thoughts whirling around his brain (and to admire Fit’s muscular back from behind). He doesn’t realize that Fit has taken him a different way until he’s being ushered out a door that leads to a small, crowded parking lot.
Pac is content for things to end there. He helped his sister out, got to see Foolish for the first time in forever, and managed to not completely stutter his way through a conversation with a good-looking American man. It’ll make for nice memories to look back on, he thinks.
“I, ah…”
The engineer turns and gives Fit his attention, curious what else needs to be said.
The other man is scratching at the back of his head, shoulders scrunching in on themselves, and now that they’re no longer under rainbow lights or in dim hallways, Pac realizes, blinking, that Fit looks embarrassed.
“I just, uh,” the security guard starts, glancing away, “I wanted to say I’m sorry again for…how I spoke to you, y’know, and for immediately assuming you were lying. I didn’t, ah, I don’t know, I still feel bad about that.”
Pac’s brows furrow. “No, it’s okay,” he assures with a shake of his head. “Promises!”
But then Fit is shaking his head, too. “Let me…” he trails off, then he peers up, and the action is too cute for words. “Let me make it up to you?”
“What,” Pac laughs nervously, “what do you mean by that?” Because yeah, maybe he already has an idea, but…surely someone like Fit is straight, right? He’s probably stereotyping — or he just can’t fathom the idea of a man so wonderful taking interest in him.
His suspicions are confirmed when Fit says, bolder: “Coffee? On me? Good shit, not like that garbage they have in the break room.”
Pac’s heart skips a beat. He covers it up by grinning. “Melissa says it’s shit, too.”
The security guard sighs. “Been tryin’a convince them to splurge on something better for ages but— ah, look at me getting off track,” he grimaces, checking his watch. “I need to get back to my post.”
Pac nods (and ignores the disappointment welling up inside). “Right, sorry for keeping you. I should—”
“So coffee?” Fit cuts in. His expression is guarded, but hopeful. And oh, Pac only now notices the spots of pink high on his cheekbones, revealed by the streetlights. He has the strongest urge to reach out and trace them with his fingers, to see how warm they are.
Instead, he smiles shyly. “Yes, I— I would like that.”
When Fit lets out a sigh of relief, Pac’s nice enough to not point it out. He does bite his lip, though, curious what it would be like to hear that sound in other, less public circumstances.
‘Get yourself together,’ he scolds himself. ‘It’s not like this is a date. He’s just being nice!’
“Um, ask Melissa for my number?” Pac suggests, not wanting to delay Fit any longer. “She’ll give it to you.”
The taller’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sound so sure. She always giving your number out or somethin’?”
The truth spills out before he can stop it: “To guys she knows are my type, yes.”
And Fit grins. “Ah. I see.”
Pac blushes hotly. “If— sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, that was weird. I’m—”
“Nah, you’re good,” Fit shrugs. And then he’s leaning down, close enough for Pac to be able to pick out the different shades of green in his eyes. His voice is low, intimate when he speaks, warm breath brushing against Pac’s lips. “There’s a reason I work at a queer club, Pac.”
Fit says his name with an emphasis that makes Pac shiver. Yes, he certainly wishes they were somewhere much more private right now.
“I-I see,” he replies dumbly. He feels close to fainting. “I, um, ah…”
Fit takes mercy on him. He rises to his full height again, though his eyes remain half-lidded. “See you soon?” he offers.
Pac nods enthusiastically. ”Yes! Yes, definitely.” Then, one more time for emphasis: “Yes.”
The guard chuckles. “Alright, then. See you soon, Pac.”
“See you,” Pac pauses, and in that split second, decides to let his accent become more pronounced again, “Fitchie.”
Olive eyes darken intently. Pac gives a shy smile and a wave before he turns on his heel and determinedly walks (not runs) away. And if his heart is in his lungs and his face is burning hot enough to cook an egg on, then that’s for him to know — and for Mike to hear about as soon as he gets home.