First Class Fuckfest - Roman Todd Devy - Down... -

Devy raised an eyebrow. “Only one? You’re slipping.”

“One rule tonight,” Roman said, his voice low.

Devy’s eyes glistened. “Even when you’re romantic, you’re an asshole.”

The festival was a triumph. But this—the quiet, the dark, the taste of Devy’s lips—this was the victory lap. First Class Fuckfest - Roman Todd Devy - Down...

Roman didn’t turn. “Shut up, Devy.”

But this right here? This was the home they came back to.

Roman finally turned. Devy’s eyes, the color of dark honey, held no judgment. Just a steady, unshakable faith that made Roman’s chest ache. Devy raised an eyebrow

Roman took the champagne flute from Devy’s hand, set it aside, and turned him. He cupped Devy’s face, his thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The makeup was smudged, the energy gone, leaving just the man underneath. Tired. Real. His.

During the final breakdown, as the synths swelled into a shimmering wall of sound, Devy drifted close. He wasn’t supposed to. The set design put them on opposite risers. But Devy had never been one for rules.

Lifestyle and entertainment, Roman thought as he pulled away. They’d built a world for everyone else to escape into. Devy’s eyes glistened

“You’re gonna be sick, aren’t you?” a voice drawled from behind him.

He found Devy exactly where he knew he would be: on the rooftop of the artist lodge, alone, staring at the dying embers of the bonfire. The festival grounds were quiet now, a sleeping giant. The only sounds were the distant hum of generators and the whisper of the wind through the forest.