This probably ended up way off what you were after, but hey, that’s writing for you. Sorry for the wait, I’ve been pretty busy!
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“Ross!”
Ross jerks his head up, startled from his intent focus on the screen in front of him. It’s Smith? The man sounds worked up about something, and usually that leads to questionable things. Ross pokes his head past the blue wall of his booth, curious at the somewhat overzealous edge to the man’s voice.
Smith’s posed in the doorway to their recording room, legs apart, knees bent slightly, hands upturned and held before and to the sides of him. He’s grinning wide, and there’s a mischievous glint in his light eyes. He gestures at Ross with jerky motions to approach him, and the dark haired man has to question why he does so immediately.
It’s going to end badly, is guaranteed to, and Ross doesn’t want to be directly involved in the consequences. But he’s going to, because he can never say no to that voice, that smile. It’s a curse he both bears with a leaden heart, and revels in.
He reaches Smith, moves his hand to itch the back of his head to seem idle, careless. As though his whole being isn’t focused on the minutiae of the taller man’s body language. He feels his cheeks flush as he overthinks his attempts to act casual, and whatever he’s doing must seem so wooden, oh god, he must see straight through it-
Smith’s suddenly right in front of him. “Mate.”
Ross tries to recoil, can’t. Smith’s hands are splayed across his deltoids and curled around to his triceps, and this along with his summer-bright eyes has him pinned.
“Kiss me.”
If Ross was still before, then he’s frozen now. His heart beats a tad too late, then resumes, too strong, and Smith must feel it though his arms, see it at his pulse below his neck.
“Oh, come on, Trott’ll be back any minute. His face’ll be gold!”
At this point, Ross feels a pain in his chest, a pang, and of course, Smith doesn’t want him. It’s just a game, that’s all. That’s all it ever would be, with Smith.
“No.” Ross can’t believe his voice doesn’t waver. Smith’s expression drops.
“Why not. Can you imagine-.”
He makes his voice as sharp and cold as he can, glacial. “Because it’s disrespectful.” And he turns without looking back, no doubt missing a very good impression of a kicked dog. When he’s behind his booth, he bows his head and breaths out with as much control as he can, hands trembling slightly. If Smith comes around the booth to him, feelings be damned, Ross might actually sock him in the jaw.
Instead, there’s silence, a few heartbeats of peace, and Ross wonders whether he prefers this. The possibility of a kiss might be too painful to consider now, but should he have, even if it would have been like adding razor wire to the trap around his heart?
His musings are interrupted by a quiet voice. “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything…” He’s never heard Smith like this. So… defeated? He doesn’t know if he was meant to hear that. And… Trott hasn’t returned yet.
Ross’ stomach clenches. What has he done?