Cocktails by Endo: Twilight Crush

“Endo Keisuk-“ The man had barely been able to get the words out before Endo’s lips closed in on his in a passionate fervor that he couldn’t hold back for one moment more upon hearing his own name. The sound of it in his mouth was validating as he’d ever imagined. It was instant gratification to feel the soft curve of his lips that Endo so admired, the upturned corners of his so-deemed kitten lips the object of his admiration, even as he spoke the words, called his name. 

In nothing but the light of invading street lamps, he clutched to him with a desperation that could only try to express how much he needed him. It would never, however, show how much he fought against it, a man who proudly claimed that while he loved freely, he’d never, ever need.

He did this. 

He did this. 

It wasn’t as if Endo had been a good sleeper, but this dream was one that had him waking with disappointment piled on his chest so heavily that he could hardly breathe. He was in deep and he knew it. The taste of rose syrup faintly remained on his lips, a taste they shared in his dream of which he briefly mourned the conclusion. 

Fuck. He could hardly tell if he was daydreaming and suddenly snapped out of it or actually asleep.

Rose syrup. He had made a batch this morning, organic red rose petals steeped in a simple syrup.

It started with rose syrup.

Cardamom pods he’d smack with the side of his knife, just to crack. Toss them in.

He reached out and took another sip, concentrating deeply on the flavors that filled his mouth, aired out with the gasping that his vision had produced. 

His face lay firmly in the couch as he cautiously sipped and set the drink back down on the floor with a long, lazy arm. 

His eyes stayed closed and his brow tensed in an expression that he wouldn’t put past this particularly intriguing not-yet-lover. 

It needed lift. Gin with grapefruit. The bitter, bright grapefruit in the floral, delicate perfume of rose petal.

Something didn’t come together how he liked. It needed to be tied together with depth that would not insult the intended recipient of this very special creation.

Bitters. 

A bitter taste that somehow drew a cord through the several flavors he had invested in this drink and string them along into a necklace that would tie itself around his throat. His throat.

Angostura bitters with their spice of clove and cinnamon seemed to fall uninspired from his brain and sink through the floor. The same flavor, less obvious, was Peychaud’s bitters with its unique anise taste. 

He'd done it. He had cracked the code, a finished recipe inspired by what he could only think of as his inevitable demise. 

He’d make candied red rose petals in the morning.