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For Office Assistant João the perks of his job were not the measly discounts at restaurants he’d never visit, or the tub of instant coffee in the kitchen, but his frequent trips to the Finance department to deliver the mailed invoices.
When the Friday post came he was swift as usual, creating two piles: invoices and not. The first would be hidden at his desk beneath a large notebook, while the rest would sit in the middle between him and his colleague, left for whenever one of them had a moment to spare. As per tradition he would watch the clock, counting the minutes till his co-worker’s break, and after his lunchtime coffee he grabbed the post and headed for the stairs.
Thin carpet underfoot might as well have been clouds. Every step became a zealous bounce. João took the stairs with the energy of someone half his age, waving staff off on their break once at the top, and after that his search was easy. He only had to prick an ear to hear loud laughs, and peer over department dividers to see two heads of blond, spiked hair. He wove past the Sales team holding post to his chest, and upon arriving at the corner of Finance a tin of butter cookies blocked his path.
“João!” Mikkel cheered. “Take one.”
João scoffed and peered into the tin. “I half expected to see a sewing kit.”
“Very funny.”
A snort from the Mikkel’s desk neighbour confirmed that yes, João was funny, while the swivel of his chair announced that work could wait. The man often referred to as Mikkel’s composed reflection helped himself to a cookie as well, observing João as the treat touched his lips.
“Afternoon, João.”
“Abel.”
Oh, how João loved his job. To be held by that gaze was a blessing in itself, but to coax Abel from his screen was another feat altogether. João softened in the heat, deliciously exposed. He clutched envelopes until they crinkled, while a finger rose to toy with the ends of his hair.
“Here.” João remembered himself, presenting the post. “These came for you.”
“Me?”
“The department,” João corrected in a hurry.
“I see. Thank you.” Abel took the envelopes. He didn’t care to smooth the wrinkles in the paper, or set about opening them right away. Instead he grabbed another buttery snack from Mikkel’s beloved tin, chewing with a look of concentration. Contemplation.
“How’re you, João? I’m fine, Abel. Thank you for asking.” Mikkel put on his show. “Any plans for the weekend? Oh, well now that you mention it-”
“Mikkel,” Abel warned, handing him the envelopes for that display. “I can speak.”
“I dunno’ about that.” Mikkel grinned at João. “Y’ know he’s been real secretive with me today.”
“Has he now?” João feigned alarm.
“He has! You’d think being bicycle beer buddies would make us close, but alas. Abel betrays me with his reluctance. He’s got plans tonight but won’t tell me what.”
“Abel is right here, and has ears,” Abel huffed.
“So, what about you?” Mikkel dismissed him, addressing João instead. “How about a few drinks at the local tonight?”
João sucked air between his teeth mid-wince. Mikkel got the point and splayed a hand over his heart. “Another rejection? No matter.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’ll survive,” Abel insisted, mouth curling on one side when Mikkel spoke of his cruelty. “You have plans too, then?”
João nodded fast. “A reservation.”
“A restaurant?”
“An escape,” João replied, taking a cookie and his leave.
He’d kicked himself at the desk, out the door and in his home, and kicked himself more beneath the trail of street lamps. João cursed his silly self for leaving Abel as he had—with nothing more than a cryptic answer—but it was necessary. He swore. Honest. He couldn’t reveal his destination, lest he lose his membership, and in that same secret vein João found the unassuming black door at the end of a side street, yanked the handle and ventured inside.
João went from lamplit streets to the midnight zone; the sole customer of a bar so blue that one would think themselves metres beneath the sea. It was easy to succumb in the alcohol abyss, illuminated by coloured liquids on display behind the bar, and succumb is precisely what João did in his daze—what he did every time that he came. He took up a stool, one of three, by the counter, shoulders bowed by the toll of the week, and said everything in the drawn-out exhale.
“Evening João. A pleasure as always.”
He followed the voice to the right, to a spot where bartender and owner Arthur stood tall bathed in shadow and light; the darkest maw versus the glow of the bottles. Fingertips graced the counter in hypnotic sweeping motions while Arthur paced deliberately slow to hook João's attention. "Welcome to Escape," he announced, voice low. "Need I ask what you require tonight?"
Albeit an answer he'd beaten himself up for, João’s reason wasn't a lie. He’d booked an escape in the Escape, an establishment which chose its patrons and not the other way around. It was as if Arthur could peer beyond flesh and bone, discover the person at the unseen core, for around the time that João’s feelings for Abel arrived, so too did Arthur Kirkland. He found João slumped in a normal bar nursing a normal drink, slipped him a card and said “come, I'll mix what you need.”
Ever since then he'd become a regular, and Arthur would give him the retreat he required.
“Long week?” Arthur surmised after a pause, eyeing João's slumped posture.
João swallowed thickly, unsure. “No more than usual, I reckon. But something in these walls always makes me...”
“It’s okay.” Arthur understood, fetching a glass of water to start João off. Escape possessed an atmosphere enhanced by its décor, a sensation hard to pin. João only knew that it was the right environment to leave the world for a moment, and soon he would in some shape or form.
“Abel asked about my plans for tonight,” João detailed further, drifting in gaze and voice. “But I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t. I know your rules.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I’m sore nonetheless.” A hollow laugh followed. “I hope he didn’t misunderstand.”
“Abel’s a better man than that.”
"You sound so certain."
"You've told me enough about him," Arthur reasoned. "And I fancy myself a good judge of character."
"That you are." João gave thanks in a short, polite nod. The water returned to the counter. “I’d say we’re good to begin.”
Arthur’s palm slapped the bar. “Righty ho. The usual?”
“A trip into my delusions over a certain man? Yes please.”
Arthur smirked and set to work, a fluid journey from place to place, cocktail shaker to counter, as if he were performing a ceremonial dance. He chose the teal bottle first, then emerald, indigo. A splash of white and yellow he threw in for fun. Arthur flipped bottles high and caught them again, before setting them back in their place.
In any other bar he’d be entertaining a crowd, whereas his establishment held an audience of one. Come to think of it, João's never seen another patron come and go during his previous bookings, a mystery alongside how does Arthur run such a bar, and why?
Out of respect and mild paranoia, João's tossed such questions to the pile best left unanswered. One part of him compares Escape to magic, and no one would dare to reveal a magician's secrets, while the other half of him is scared, quite frankly, that the day he learns the truth it'll vanish. The bar will up and leave in the dead of night, and so too will his sweet dreams.
Bar Escape is an escape, nothing more. For a moderate sum it feeds the hunger of the heart, patching a wound that would otherwise rot. Never can it truly resolve one's problems. “I’m obliged to tell you—” Arthur announced on that note, giving the concoction a vigorous shake “—that the right solution is always in your grasp, and not in the bottom of a glass. You will enter a vision, an illusion, and you will come back here, to your life, as usual.”
“I understand,” João responded, his part in their verbal contract. “The responsibility is mine.”
“Excellent.” With that, Arthur poured. Cubes of ice clinked and swirled around the glass. The end result was a luminescent Blue Lagoon, or so João called it in a previous visit, and upon its completion Arthur swept it from the counter, nodding for João to follow him through the next door.
“I’ve always hated this hallway, Arthur.”
“I know,” the man in question chuckled, perhaps taking some joy in João’s confession. “I assure you no one’s dead, or has died, within these walls. Not since I bought the place, anyway.”
“You’re not helping.” João stuck close to Arthur for good measure, peering up at number lights signposting each room. This part of Escape resembled a hotel, albeit one derived from Arthur’s twisted head. Thick walls and doors muffled sound altogether, so that no passer-by could hear a peep.
“You’ll be in 37 tonight.”
“37?” João blinked, almost stumbling into Arthur in the process. “It’s busier than expected.”
“Got some eager dreamers,” Arthur snorted. “A few have been here since the morning, others the afternoon. I took the last customer through just a minute before you arrived.”
Was that a blessing or a shame? João didn’t know. He closed the matter with a simple I see, following Arthur down the hall.
Room 37 was just like 15, 11, and 24 João used before that. Each room was as cosy as the next, wide enough for a single leather sofa, a plush, fluffy rug, and glowed with the same indigo hue as the rest of Escape.
“Make yourself at home.”
“Already am.” João took off his boots and threw his jacket to the rug. Arthur made a point of hanging the latter on a wall-mounted hook. Once João was seated the drink entered his grasp, best downed fast if one wanted to fall right into the illusion, or sipped if time was not of the essence.
“I suspect you’re the fast type tonight,” Arthur jibed.
“Do you poke fun at all of your customers?”
“Only those I consider a friend.”
João would let him off for that. “Alright then.” He looked at his drink. “I should get going.”
“Ready when you are.”
The drink called. João delayed. The gap between glass and mouth felt impossibly large. He stood upon the metaphorical board overlooking the pool, and after a sharp breath he took the plunge. Candied orange and spices lined his throat, accompanied by sharp lemon and a sweet, cherry swirl. Mint soothed the bones, sparked the mind, and by the faint salt finale João was on his way, hurtling to a retreat mixed just for him.
The pull of Escape, specifically Arthur’s talent, laid in its ability to build a world brick by brick, sound and life, until it was easy to forget that nothing was real. João felt at the paintwork of the ornate doorway, tested the sway of the black cloak upon one shoulder, and gazed from his half mask upon the marvel of music and dance; a baroque masquerade so unlike his bright drink.
That part was somewhat expected. The same beverage could take João to other countries in an instant, from the tips of mountains, sunset beaches, to bars brighter than that of Escape. In such dreams one could feast as much as they wished, no amount of drinking could make them sick either, and sexual pleasure was felt in full.
João once appeared naked in a low-lit room of leather and faux fur, a lit cigarette between his lips and a hand slowly stroking his length. He indulged in those ‘features’ most of all, sometimes making repeat trips to that one scene, while the masquerade was new. A world unexplored. He strode along the grand spread of wine and desserts, plucking a profiterole from a tower and letting the cream sit on his tongue when he bit in. A sip of wine sent it down, João grabbed another and one more, licking caramel from the pad of his thumb.
Spectators reached for chocolate covered fruits, while others continued to dance over João’s shoulder. He polished off his wine and fetched a second glass, waiting until the main event in his dreams arrived: firm hands on his waist and lips at his neck. Hot breaths upon skin almost made his legs shake.
Besides the colour and flavour of his drink, only this remained consistent. João would enter a dream, wait a few moments, and then Abel—a vision of him, at least—would appear granting everything João craved in his bed late at night. The Abel would work from waist to chest, then down again, and there he would focus for the rest of the night, never stopping until João was satisfied.
As per usual roaming hands worked fast, feeling under doublet and shirt to grope his chest, but unlike usual they didn't go down. Instead they toyed with nipples until hard, and seemed determined to stay put when João arched forward.
“Somebody’s keen,” João shuddered, knowing full well who to blame. Arthur must’ve tweaked the recipe, added more spice, for this Abel kissed and growled as if he were starved, more forthcoming than his prior appearances.
“I’ve missed you.”
That phrase was also new. João craned his head to look back, to study Abel’s face, only for lips to be claimed as soon as Abel could reach them. An arm looped João’s torso to hold him in place, and then Abel took his hand, eyeing traces of caramel, and considered it his duty to eat off the rest.
"Hang on. You don't have to-!"
"I'm going to."
João stumbled over sounds, boiling beneath Abel’s touch. Whatever Arthur had done with his drink, he could do again, and this Abel could likewise do as he pleased. He licked fingers clean and kissed the palm, after which he got back to teasing hard nubs between his fingers, and catching moans in open-mouthed kisses.
Overall, this Abel responded much like all the other Abels derived from João’s fantasies, with the exception of greater skills at reading the room. He understood when to soften, to embrace, and placed a light peck on João’s cheek just beneath his mask. “I’ve missed you,” Abel said again, barely audible over the music.
“I’ve missed you too,” João smiled and returned a soft kiss. “Although it hasn’t been that long, not for me.”
“What do you mean?”
João sighed, relaxing in strong arms which moved to his waist. He studied gold candlesticks on the table ahead, fashioned into twisting branches and leaves which cupped flames. “This will sound strange, but I saw you today at work, and I-”
Arms squeezed. Breath hitched by João’s ear. Abel uttered an inquisitive “at work...?”
João hummed, giving tense arms a light pat. “I had to walk away when you asked about my plans. I felt bad for keeping it a secret, but the bar’s rules are what they are-”
The room span, and so did João. Large palms took his upper arms and turned him fast, coaxing him to meet the wild whites of Abel’s eyes. Something was surely amiss, pale skin turned paler. Abel’s throat bobbed beneath bunched lace.
It dawned on João, albeit late, that his Abels didn’t fret half as much as this one, nor did they abstain from loving too long. They were images of his yearning brought to life, while this Abel pried the mask from João's face to map every detail, little mole included. He set it on the table and removed his own mask next, his chest heaving with sudden, sharp breaths.
“Are you—” Abel cupped João’s face again “—verdomme, you are. I knew it.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re real.”
“Of course I’m-”
João froze. He cracked a strained laugh. What a horrible game Arthur was playing, after all. He'd have a few stern words with him after this.
“João,” Abel brought him back with care. “You said you’d made a reservation. An escape. Was it with the Escape? Arthur’s bar?”
And with that said, the illusion shattered. João stepped back in an attempt to flee, but when he geared left feet ground to a halt. Abel caught his wrist and held him in place. "I have to go," João excused. "I'm sorry."
“Don’t say that,” Abel pleaded. "It's fine."
"I want to agree, but-"
“Did my greeting explain nothing?"
João forced down spit. He pictured roaming hands and greedy lips, and studied Abel's mouth on instinct.
“I visit Escape too,” Abel confirmed in due course. “And for the same reason as you, I hope.”
“I didn't know you could dance,” João said, happy to let Abel lead them across the floor. Even if the people around them weren't real, Abel made sure not to guide them into other couples, and so far they'd been met with success. This was his Abel, no doubt about it, but as for why he was there in João's dream…
“Arthur,” Abel deadpanned. “He was acting strange tonight. Talked a lot. It felt like he was trying to delay my 'escape' for some reason.”
“Had you been here long before I arrived?”
“No. About 5 minutes at best.”
João hummed, not that Abel would have heard it over the music. He must've been the customer just before João, and that could only mean one thing: sneaky Arthur, knowing their purpose for escaping was aligned, must've put their appointments side by side. That way it'd be easy to set them up in the same dream, and ensure the first arrival didn't grow bored or decide to leave.
“I have a question for you,” Abel announced.
João blinked, coming to. “What is it?”
The corner of Abel's mouth threatened to curl. He cleared his throat to ease it back into line. “You come here, to these escapes, specifically, to see a vision of me. Correct?”
“Yes. What of it?"
“You seemed surprised by my behaviour, that's all. I can only assume my doppelgangers are lacking in places.”
João decided to clear his throat too. The hand upon his waist gave a playful squeeze. “I might've been caught off guard," he replied. "But that's normal. Nothing can truly replicate reality here.”
“Well said.”
“What are your Joãos like?”
The raise of Abel's eyebrows was a tell in itself. Memories proceeded to flood his head. “Good, but nothing like this,” he replied, pulling João flush to his torso. They adopted a slow spin as opposed to a dance. “Do you want to keep going?”
João felt at the gold detail on Abel's doublet, appreciating the craftsmanship, dream or no. The style suited him, as did the shoulder cloak. “One more dance, then a drink.”
“As you wish.”
João looked out from their dancefloor hideaway, a booth with a table of food and drink, and a long red velvet sofa which ran around the whole space. Heavy curtains were hooked back to grant a view of the action, the main room, while nobody else attempted to enter the booth.
“Perhaps they can't,” Abel theorised. “Even when I arrived here this room was empty.”
“Another part of Arthur's grand plan?”
“I reckon so.” Abel shuffled along until their thighs touched, swirling dregs of wine in the bottom of a golden cup. “I'm not complaining, however.”
“Me neither,” João beamed. “This has been my favourite escape by far.”
“It's not over.”
João studied Abel's face, and those lips which spoke with such dangerous delight. Abel set his cup down in favour of prying a profiterole from sticky caramel, and held it towards João's mouth. “Here you are."
João grinned, leaning in. “Why thank you-”
“Not all of it.” Abel permitted a small bite first, then another. João smirked and poked his tongue inside to lick up the cream. If this was Abel's game, so be it, through lidded eyes he finished the pastry, and set about cleaning Abel's fingers next. He took two into his mouth right up the knuckles, watching need cloud Abel's heavy gaze.
“João.”
He forgot himself by the third finger, swirling his tongue around without shame. It would be fine in this world, wouldn’t it? And it’d be fine if Abel was just like him, entering Escape to do things with an image of João? They were in this together, their secrets exposed, and he might as well enjoy himself-
“João.”
Fingers left his mouth. Hands guided him down. João registered nothing but the kisses as needy as his own, and their tongues amidst heated breaths. He arched from the bench, pressed to Abel's torso, mewling at the hardness grinding between his spread legs. João fisted hair and wool as lips trailed his neck, lost in the pleasant flurry of rolling hips and shifting fabrics until his bare shoulder met softness, velvet, and eyes widened to search the room. The sight of the party held him like a vice; spectres doomed to dance until they, he and Abel, were content.
“Abe, wait.”
Despite the heat, Abel gladly obliged. “We don’t have to go all the way,” he said.
“That’s not it,” João replied, cupping Abel’s face in both palms. “I want this. I want you. Just…”
Abel hummed. He understood. “Which room are you?”
“37.”
Another hum followed, punctuated by a kiss. “Wait for me. I’ll be there soon.”
Although João knew the definition of ‘wait’, and had always hated the atmosphere of the hallway, he’d been quick to scramble from the sofa, hard-on aside, and greet Abel in the doorway.
From there it was a race from wall to floor, out of clothes and into a rhythm of lubed, slick fingers—the very same João ‘cleaned’ before—stretching muscle keen to take something thicker. Nevertheless Abel bided his time, another thing which separated him from the dream Abels, working a naked João into a babbled stupor of hands clutching the rug underneath, and hips yearning to thrust inside Abel’s mouth. The man saw sense to pin him down with a firm hand, and, as if feeling João’s stare, had the nerve to make eye contact while he withdrew bit by bit, then placed a kiss to the heat of João’s tip.
“Don’t look like that,” Abel laughed low, crawling up to kiss João’s frown next. “I’ve never seen you so serious.”
“Yeah well, I’ve never seen you so-...!”
“Hm?” Abel arched his brow, feigning ignorance. He dragged his length against João’s entrance one more time—the cause of his distraction. “Never seen me so ‘what’?”
“Put it in,” João blurted, whining when thumbs hooked under each knee and spread his legs wide, giving Abel more room to rub against his arse undisturbed. “I want you, please.”
“Of course.”
A simple please was all it took, annoyingly, but far be it from João to complain. He shuddered and clung to Abel’s neck with a groan, placing a sloppy kiss to hot skin. His urges were fed inch by inch, always gentle, until large shoulders trembled in his hold and equally shaky hands began to massage circles into his thighs.
Dream Abels didn’t take long to get inside, and in another time João might’ve laughed about that fact. Dreams really were dreams, nothing more, and as Abel’s pace shifted from cautious, testing strokes, to mad slaps on skin following João’s encouragement, João decided he would take the clumsier real Abel over any of the others. He embraced the grunts, the panted swears, and when their desires spilt in a matter of minutes João welcomed the lazy kisses and steady slide of Abel’s cock too, neither man keen for the moment to end.
For Office Assistant João the perks of his job were no longer just the delivery of invoices to the Finance department, but the moments when Abel would take a deliberate long walk past João’s desk to go for a smoke, or gesture to the secluded printer room with an exaggerated sigh, claiming that the thing wouldn’t work again and he’d appreciate João’s skilled hand to get it going.
Two weeks after their encounter at Escape, João split the post as usual, bounced up the stairs as usual, and stared at the same tin of butter cookies held out with a grin. The only difference was the curious wobble to Mikkel’s persistent smile, and how the tin—with its lid still on—rattled as if it were filled with anything other than biscuits.
A glance from Abel said indulge him, so João did, and in his doing he found a sewing kit which shook when Mikkel began to laugh. He riled up in a glee one could only call infectious, a joy that shook off the aches and pains of another week filled with silly calls, and had his audience smiling too.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.” Mikkel set aside the tin to locate the actual butter cookies, and offered those to João instead. “Here. Take a couple.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“And whilst you’re here,” Mikkel leant in, still grinning. “How about we go for that drink I mentioned the other week? The one down by the local? Abel's refused me again, you see. I swear he’s doing it on purpose. Or he hates me.”
“Abel has ears, and is right here,” Abel deadpanned. “And we have plans.”
"We...?" Mikkel soon got the point, a smarter man than he’d ever let on. He studied João’s averted gaze, of which soon found Abel’s, and watched envelopes crinkle in his hands. “Something together, huh?” He swivelled in his chair, giving a firm, approving nod. “That sounds nice.”
“It will be,” Abel agreed.
“Going anywhere special? Like a restaurant?”
“An escape,” João clarified, handing the envelopes to Abel with a wink.