Who: Andrew and Blake What: Heading out Where: The Wynn to start, then a bar, then back to the Wynn. When: Saturday night
Who would have thought that Lord Andrew Percy and Blake Thorne, heir to Thorne Industries, would ever be friends? On the outside, it would seem to be the oddest pairing of the century, but it had worked. Andrew was a student at Cambridge at the time, attending a charity event for one of the numerous causes that his family supported. He had walked out onto a terrace to escape the crowd, to find the other man doing much the same thing. The conversation was a spirited one, at times thought provoking, at times humorous, and it had worked. Andrew had kept in touch with him over the years, reading stories in the news, sending the occasional card or letter, calling when it was an option, all over one chance meeting at what could have been one of those forgettable events.
Perhaps it was their differences that kept Andrew interested in what the dark haired man was doing, but he was glad for it. Since he caught up to Blake over the journals, his anger seemed to evaporate. This particular meeting was something he was looking forward to. Andrew had said that they needed to get together if they managed to find themselves in the same place again, although he wasn’t sure he could keep up with his mate’s lifestyle. He was determined to try it, to shed his title, and live.
The problem with living was that he had to choose clothing that was suitable for whatever Blake had in mind. He looked at a brown suit and could smell the boredom. He passed a navy blue one and made a face. There were dozens of the same sort and style, perfect for business, not pleasure. He turned to a rack of slacks, again deciding that they were way too stuffy. After trying several combinations, the bed was littered with bad choices, and Andrew was looking in the mirror in the only blue jeans he owned. As the clock ticked away, he continued to look for a shirt.
Blake was already on the list, as it were, at the Wynn, so it was an easy thing to get past security, and take the elevator up. He was dressed for bar-hopping, in a red shirt, dark jacket and dark slacks. His clothes were carelessly rumpled because he couldn't be fucked to iron them and he liked being a little underdressed whenever possible. His hair was a ramshackle tumble around his face, and his cologne was something expensively dirty smelling and a little sweet, vetiver, black tea, and honey.
This Blake was not the same one that Andrew had met a few years before. Much was similar - he was still well-dressed and all sly smiles, and he still knew precisely how gorgeous he was and played to his strengths. Something was missing, though - some kindness, some warmth had disappeared in the interim, replaced by a fleeting bitterness that came and went at the edges of his mouth.
Blake was looking forward to seeing Andrew. He had the accent and the breeding of an upper class twit, but managed not to be one, and he had to admire that in a guy. He knocked on the door with a few sharp raps. "I hope you're dressed," came the sing-song call through the wood.
Andrew answered the door, still shirtless with black jeans. “I’m just about dressed. Hold on. I was just about to make that final choice of color. It seems to be a night for black” His grin broadened as he headed back to the closet. “You do look good, and I’m sure you will say that you already know that.”
He put the shirt on, buttoning it quickly. It had been a long time, but it didn’t feel like that long now. Blake had left an impression. At the time, Andrew was to be engaged to Sera. He had been nervous, talking about duty to his family, and how it wasn’t really what he wanted. Blake was one of the few who knew that Andrew had wanted to escape, perhaps to travel all over the world.
He looked around the corner at Blake for a minute before walking into the bathroom, picking up a small bottle of John Varvatos, USA cologne. It wasn’t the top of the line, but he liked it. “This is better, yeah? I’m trying to lose that arrogant Duke impression, and not go for the full party prince,” he said, stepping out of the loo. Blake was a nice looking man, a little on the rough side, but Andrew knew that it was deliberate. They had grown up in similar houses, with similar standards, that made most rebel in one way or another. Andrew wasn’t going to criticize at all. He had felt the need to step out of his box more times than he can count. Blake had done that, and that was what Andrew liked about him.
“Where are you taking me for my initiation to the wild side of this lovely town?” He was up for anything. He had decided after he arrived that it was time to experience life, and Blake was a very nice surprise. Even more, he was right about so many things.
Blake gave Andrew an approving once over. He'd never made a secret of his sexuality, and even if he had, Andrew would have heard all the rumors and read the nasty bout of muckraking surrounding Eric the year before. All that was behind him now, of course, but it had made who he liked falling into bed with a matter of public rather than private distinctions. "You look good," he said. "But you also look like one of the wait staff. If you don't want to get asked what the drink specials are, my friend, no black shirts unless they come with a suit coat. And you're not wearing a suit coat with those biceps."
Blake sifted through Andrew's closet, moving into the apartment and into Andrew's belongings like he was part-owner of the place. He sought out a shirt in a color to throw at him, then did so. "That one."
"It smells good," Blake observed of the cologne, throwing a cheeky smile Andrew's way. "That's all the matters in my book. All it has to do is make somebody want to sidle up to you and smell your neck without giving off eau de frat and you're good to go. I told you, we're going to a soviet bar. You really think I'd let you down?" Blake straightened, smoothing out his collar idly with his fingertips. "We'll get you drunk, and then see what happens. It's Vegas, remember. Even if you live here, what you do stays out there." He shrugged. "And in the tabloids if you're royalty, but I've got faith you can learn from that other fucker's mistake."
Andrew was aware of Blake’s sexuality, and he couldn’t say he wasn’t attracted to him. He wasn’t as open to considering the possibility the night they had met, banishing any thoughts that were not on the straight and narrow path of a royal, but he was free here. He blushed a little, the same way he had with Lin. He took the offered shirt, a blue one that brought out his eyes. “I did pick this one first. I should have stayed with it. What would I do without your unique eye?”
He unbuttoned his black shirt and exchanged it for the blue one. He looked in the mirror for a minute, examining his biceps. He had been in the gym a lot, and maybe it was paying off. “We royals do know how to do it in style, but I don’t think I am up for drunken billiards just yet. The royals do seem like a forgiving lot, although I’m sure he got the scolding in public. All that rot about trying to portray them as more of a family is such a show. Royalty is a business.” He buttoned the new shirt, keeping the top one open. He tucked in, surveying again. He had never put much stock into being a nice looking man. He didn’t see himself that way at all. His carriage was still stiff, as one who was raised in wealth and privilege, but there was something else - a willingness to bend a bit, and then let go.
“I am a rather cheap date,” he admitted, casting a look back at Blake. “It doesn’t take much to get me drunk. You are going to try to set me up, aren’t you? What do you think would be my type?”
"My queer eye? I don't know, straight guy." Blake gestured grandly to the door for Andrew, an 'after-you' wave of the arm, and then followed him to it. "Ain't it just. So's business. I was lucky to end up with an old man who was big on the whole family thing." But thinking of his father brought back memories of home, and of the man he'd so bitterly disappointed by running away to the west coast, and the thought of his disappointment just sparked off his anger that he should dare be disappointed in him, and it was just one big Rube Goldberg machine of bad feeling with traps and flints and gunpowder trails hissing on its way the the big bomb in his chest. Ha ah. Fuck that. He swiped it away. This place was making him soft, with all this hotel bullshit and people in other worlds.
"Me? Set you up? Wouldn't dream of it." That cheeky smile went insincerely wide, and it was a good one, too. The chinks in it were well shored up, almost impossible to find. Blake’s shoulders relaxed. He was out to have fun tonight, wasn't he? And show his friend a good time. Now that, that he could do. "Well, the plan was to ply you with some colorful girly drinks and then shove you in the direction of the first hot redhead that wandered your way." Blake held the door for Andrew, and cupped his hands around imaginary endowments. "Redhead. With big tits. That's what I'm thinking. In my humble opinion, the higher you are in the world, the more down home you want your girls. So redhead with big tits and some fire to contrast your british thing, or a twink with a serious hardon for royalty. This town is knee-deep in both, so we shouldn’t have too hard a time.”
Andrew walked out the door first, stopping short to gape at his mate. “A ginger? You would set me up with a Ginger.” He laughed lightly, arching a teasing eyebrow before walking again. “My tastes have changed some since we last met. I did tell you that I was no longer engaged. I also put a bit of variety in my diet.” Blake would figure that out in moments. He had intelligence that didn’t always show through in his demeanor, but it was definitely there.
Over the last years, Andrew had followed the news of Thorne Industries, and his friend. As with most of his friends, he felt protective of him. He had heard about the kidnapping, followed it in the news, even sent condolences. He wasn’t sure how someone would get through that. Blake had strength, even if he also had an undercurrent of destruction. He also knew better than to get into heavy conversations about it at the moment.
“I was really looking forward to the cherry vodka, nice and smooth, with a bit of an edge.” That was what he seemed to like in people as well. “I can give you my title for a little while, Lord Thorne has a nice ring to it. Would you take advantage of it?” Andrew has thrown a title out there once or twice, but he was really learning to live without it, enjoying just being Andrew for a bit, unless it mattered.
"You fucking Brits and your redhead issues," Blake said. Andrew's next remark, however, earned him a side-eye and a slowly curling smile. "Now I like the sound of that." It wasn’t wholly unexpected. Whether Andrew was just playing at variety or he was more like Blake than he’d first assumed was yet to be seen, but he’d be able to put that together in due time. Blake’s own sexuality was comfortably vast. Men more often than women, but some very memorable women when they did come along. Blake jammed the button on the elevator. "Do mommy and daddy know you've been peeking outside the closet?" Blake asked, with a bit of the glee of a dirty little secret. He expected the answer to that one to be a 'no', but you never could tell. He had a firm ‘no closets’ policy, but he could see how things might be different for somebody who was supposed to have blue blood or whatever.
"We can make cherry vodka happen, never you worry," Blake said. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Blake stepped in and tapped the button for the first floor, lighting it blue. "Lord Thorne," Blake said, and readjusted his shoulders, as if the title had settled there like a mantle. "I like it," he said, nodding. "People would need to bow when I walked into a room, I could go travel the continent and fuck my way through every royalist in Europe. I see a lot of advantages to being part of the monarchy for a bit."
"I happen to enjoy having a healthy bank roll," Andrew admitted as the doors opened to the lobby. "I have no intentions of bringing on the royal backlash before I purchase a house and transfer said funding to an account here." Andrew could be naive at times but not when it came to navigating politics, or his family.
"Can you imagine the reaction if I bring home a prince and not a princess?" It was a situation that he wasn't comfortable with, but he wasn't ruling it out - eventually.
Andrew usually didn't discuss many details of his personal life including sexuality, but the affair with Lin had made it public knowledge, at least among head cases. He was glad Blake had missed that bit of embarrassment. He was also more comfortable discussing such issues with Blake. He understood some of Andrew's life, and he was comfortable with himself. "You look bloody good, Lord Thorne,". He opened the door to the hotel, returning the bow. "Are we walking or riding?"
“It’d make for one amazing fucking news day,” Blake said, with a wicked grin. “And it’d set a pretty fucking amazing precedent.” It would be nice to live in a world where princes could bring home princes and princesses could bring home princesses, but there were the realities. “After you get the money, though, with you there. If they get pissed off, then fuck ‘em.” It was a healthy philosophy, to Blake’s mind, and he lived by it to the hilt.
Blake had been too busy drowning himself in wine, men, women, and song to pay any attention to what the tabloids said, aside from the occasional headline about himself that some chortling partygoer shoved under his nose. “When you say it with that fucking accent I think about us on horses going to the casino. We should do that sometime, that shit would be rad.” The valet had scurried away as Blake came out, and less than a minute later he pulled up with Blake’s car, answering the question. “Get in, loser,” Blake said, sliding into the driver’s seat after catching the valet’s key throw. “We’re going drinking.”
“It might be an amazing precedent, but do you want to be the one to set that precedent, Lord Thorne?” He watched as the car pulled up. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this car looked like something he would drive. It was large, maybe larger than life.
“Loser? Didn’t you mean Lord, you sod? You did get several letters correct there.” He wasn’t serious at all and it showed on his face. He slid into the seat next to Blake, inspecting the ride. “You need to go house shopping with me. You seem to like large spaces, on the upscale side. I’ve had my eye on a few.” He also didn’t want the place to look like a typical, boring expanse.
“You’ve got me for the evening. I trust if anyone can show me a good time, it’s you.” He definitely left options open there. He remembered saying that if he ever did come to the states, they would have to go out. He hadn’t really forgotten it, even though they had taken different directions.
"I think you're hard of hearing, my friend. That was loser, not lord." He grinned and gunned the engine, peeling away from the hotel. He fished around in the console for his sunglasses and flicked them open, slipping them on. The sun wasn't quite down yet, but it would be soon. "House shopping?" He laughed. "We are for real girlfriends, aren't we? Alright, but only if you're willing to hear my harsh and candid criticism of your personal taste in pads."
"You should trust it," Blake agreed. "I'm the best there is in this town as far as tour guides who'll debauch you. I won't throw you off the deep end tonight - figured I'd ease you in - but trust me, you keep going out with me and you'll be knee deep in orgies before you know it." He whipped around a corner with a good dose of speed and then came to a stop at a red light. Annoying. He was going to have to take this thing out into the desert again sometime soon.
“I think I had it right the first time,” Andrew countered with a smile. He inspected the man’s profile as he had that first night. His dark hair and eyes accentuated his features. His smile always looked like there was more going on behind it, like a fine liquor. It went down easy, but there was a bite that was both pleasant and unexpected. “What is the term? Besties or BFF.” He thought it sounded ridiculous, but he liked it. “The way I see it, if you hate the place, it’s probably too boring. If you love it, then probably a den of sin. It needs to be just right.”
His eyes shifted back to the road. He was getting to know the town, and he knew his way out to the desert now, after the little trek with Trystan. “Jumping head first into the pool never quite works for me, but at least I learned to swim.” He looked up at the sky, lighting up the night with stars. “If I keep going out with you, I will end up putting the other Prince to shame. According to the paparazzi, I am the good, sane royal. I also know how to cover my arse.”
“Besties,” Blake said solemnly. “Oh, yeah, that’s not gay in the least.” He gunned the gas when the light turned green, slipping in and out of traffic despite the boat’s-length girth of the car. Five minutes later, they pulled up in front of a slightly grungy, industrial chic bar front. The sign hanging out front had no name, just a picture of the soviet flag carved into the wood and painted. Through the glass wall of the front, the dim interior could be seen, as could the groups inside, clustered around the bar and the low tables, drinking. “Den of sin, baby,” Blake said. The place was nice enough to have a valet despite its attempts at a dirty facade, and Blake handed his keys off. “Sane royals don’t last so long, from what I hear. We need to inject you with a little insanity.” Blake grinned, and tilted his head toward the door. “Get you to stop covering your ass so hard nobody can find it. Come on.”
The car was the size of a small boat. Andrew really wasn’t used to cars this size that he wasn’t riding in the back of with glass separating him from the driver. It did seem to suit Blake. He laughed softly as they got out. He looked at the sign, eyes widened. “This place actually exists,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I don’t even think they have one of these in London.”
He walked next to the man, pulling a money clip out of his pocket. “I’ve got this covered,” he said. When men had money, it really didn’t matter who paid. Andrew didn’t mind spending the family bank account. “My sanity lasted many years, but I think it’s hit the limit,” he drawled as they entered the club. “However, I don’t uncover my arse for just anyone.” Blake might be an exception. There had been a few exceptions of late. The first time he had met Blake, he was a bit jealous of the man’s freedom, especially given his family. Andrew had always wanted a taste of what it would be like to just live, and not worry about the backlash of any questionable action. His life had felt like years of being locked up, and he was just beginning to step out of the box.
“What are you having?” he asked, sliding up to the bar. A few of the patrons looked in their direction, Andrew assumed at Blake, who was a striking man. He actually didn’t expect the recognition of the princes, or the eyes on him as well.
"What, did you think I was taking you through the fucking tornado, Dorothy? Come on." Blake rolled his eyes when Andrew insisted on paying - please, it wasn't as if Blake couldn't afford it - but his thought was true, in the end. What the fuck did it matter, anyway? Blake would get him later, and it wasn't as if either of them would be writing the other an I.O.U.
Blake stepped inside with Andrew. The place was dark, of course, but decorated in the most lavish of soviet styles. The bar itself was located inside The Mandalay Bay, with a bright red light behind the impressive vodka collection backing the bar. "Vodka," Blake said, without pausing to think for a second, eyes scanning across the pyramid of bottles. "So many choices," he mused. "Might have one of each." Blake looked down the bar at Andrew and caught the eyes on him. His smile widened imperceptibly, a flicker of that widening smile creasing the corner of his eyes, the mark of interest, and he earned a smile back and a flustered look away for his trouble. He chuckled to himself, then pointed out one of the upper range bottles to the bartender. That done, Blake shifted to lean sideways against the bar, facing Andrew. "See, we just hit on your problem, my friend. You're too picky. We're in a fucked up town, in a fucked up situation. So why not fuck around a little?"
“You, mate, assume I haven’t,” Andrew countered, arching a brow. The drinks were served and Andrew took his, turning to face the man, trying to keep what he could only describe as a nervous tension off of his face. It had been there only vaguely the last time, as he had denied every inch of his being that might have strayed to consider anything but marriage, family, and duty. Those thoughts were now allowed to run freely, and his statement more or less confirmed that he was definitely considering options.
He scanned the room with the same watchful eye, sipping the vodka. “I wouldn’t say I’m that picky. I know what I like.” Andrew had secrets of his own. Being rather tight lipped had kept him protected for a long time. He took another drink, mentally acknowledging that he was already with the best looking man here. “Why take anyone less than the best home?”
"I do, but I guess I was wrong," Blake said. He took his shot, downed it, and slid the shot glass noiselessly back across the bar with an extension of his fingers. The bartender busied himself with refilling it without being asked. It was good stuff, the vodka, smooth burning in the throat, and that was a good thing, since Blake intended to have a lot more of it over the course of the night. "Guess you just keep it under wraps better than I do," Blake said, with a sardonic 'whoops' in his expression.
Blake laughed. "You're looking at it the wrong way," Blake said, his languid length loose against the edge of the bar. "Come on. Look." He pointed at a girl across the room. She was well-dressed, as one needed to be in a bar like this one, but heavy. "See, some people would cut that girl off because she's a little on the big side. She's not the best in the room based on most people's standards. Me, I look at a girl like that and think hey, pretty face -" here the second shot of vodka arrived, and Blake accepted it from the bartender with a magnanimous nod of the head - "pretty face, nice tits, hair long enough to really get your hands in, and look at those lips, man. It's about the package. Plus, if I'm going to go for a girl, why would I go for a little bit of girl? Not that I don't, but I'm just saying. Might as well get more girl for your buck, man." Blake downed the shot, and then started to laugh. Two shots in, and he didn't have so much as a burn of a buzz yet. That would change soon. "Then again, I'd probably fuck one of those bottles of vodka if I got horny enough and it had a wide enough mouth, so maybe I'm not the one to give you pickup advice."
Andrew watched his face, enjoying the animation in it. He grabbed a shot to keep himself from breaking out in laughter, not at the girl, but at Blake’s colorful description. “If I am going to go for a ‘woman’,” he said, accentuating the word, “she would be - .” He paused, scanning the room. He wouldn’t say he wasn’t still interested in the ladies, but it had been awhile, and his taste for men had taken front and center since his arrival in Vegas. “Look, that one.” He pointed to a lady in a little black dress with an open back. She was smaller, with blonde hair that fell down her back. She probably worked out regularly, looking like she could easily fall into a role of a princess if asked. “It’s all about the way they carry themselves. They have to be strong, but yet have lines and curves, and tits are nice too.”
He set the shot glass back down. He wasn’t going to try to match Blake, who could out-drink him with ease. Andrew was a lightweight, and he knew it. “Men are a bit different,” he admitted, “Dark hair, dark eyes.” It really didn’t explain his affinity for Trystan, but nothing really explained that. The little poet was someone he didn’t discuss, not really out of a need for secrecy, but because of things he couldn’t really explain in a way that made sense. “Athletic, intelligent, fun, minus hang ups on exes.” He laughed, signaling for a second shot of that vodka anyway. “I have never said anything like that to anyone.”
“I’m not anyone,” Blake said, with a bright, sure glint in his eye. “See, I knew you had a guy with some taste hiding in you somewhere. Not sure I go for the Princess Di chicks you’re ogling, but I can follow you on the guys.” He mused into his shot glass, nursing this one a bit more slowly. “Except I’m not as picky. After all, it’s not like I want to spend the rest of my life with them. There’s too many to go through.”
Blake, paused, tapped the shot glass on the bar, and pointed at Andrew. “Say...that description suspiciously includes me.” He grinned, and his eyes turned on Andrew’s, sharp enough still, even after a couple of shots, to pin a fly to the wall. “Are you trying to tell me something, liege?”
Andrew’s eyes met Blake’s. His nerves gave a tug. “My Leige? I like that. It sounds good rolling off your tongue. For your information, that description also describe’s L - [...] the last one. He was a good looking man.” He decided to take the shot. There was a lot of courage in a few shots, or lowered inhibitions. “It also does describe you, although it could be a coincidence. I can’t let your ego run off completely.”
He watched the bartender pouring Blake’s next, waving him off gracefully. “It makes me wonder what would have happened had I not been determined to get married the first night we met.” He had thought of it from time to time over the last two years. If he had been the man he was today, he would have been more open to whatever the man presented.
"My ego doesn't need your help to go running off," Blake said, carelessly downing the rest of his shot. "It runs just fine on its own steam, man." He set the shot glass aside with a determined thunk on the bar. Not his last, but he wouldn't have another right away.
The mention of what might have been surprised Blake a little, and he smiled even as a vaguely concerned thought scuttled across the surface of his brain. Andrew was a good guy, and a decent friend. He probably at least deserved a stop sign before he went gunning for go. "Yeah, well." He hadn't been unattached then, either. The thought came unbidden, and, with it, a sting below the breast, dulled by vodka. But that was a very long time ago anyway, he consoled himself. Ages. He'd already forgotten about what it was like to be with somebody. "I ought to warn you before you go wondering that you're a pretty decent kind of person, and guys like you don't tend to do too well with guys like me," Blake said. He was smiling, but there was some real, vague intention to give Andrew an out before he started conjuring up ideas of things Blake couldn't, wouldn't allow to happen. Realistic expectations, at the very least. Commitment wasn't in his vocabulary, not anymore, and people who made it into his bed tended to find themselves swiftly marginalized in his life, or treated exactly the same way they had been before having sex with him. Because who cared, right? Sex was about convenience, fun, and pleasure. Andrew was the marrying kind. He wanted to sow his wild oats and fuck the well-cheekboned rake, that was fine by Blake, but he wasn't interested in leading him down some rabbit hole he didn't know how to climb back out of.
“I know who you are, and what you do,” he replied, not letting that rattle him much. It was considerate for Blake to be concerned and maybe he had a right to be. Lin was a first, and that situation had been messy. Inexperience played as much a role as anything else, causing a bit of panic, but it had also caused Andrew to realize a few things. “I don’t want anyone to take home to a castle, at least not like this, and I’m not looking for the love of my life, just a life, and not one full of people expecting me to act a certain way like a trained pet. I’ve had enough of that.”
“Don’t worry about all that shite,” Andrew laughed, clapping Blake on the shoulder. “It’s probably bound to happen one night out of pure stupidity, but I won’t hold it against you.” He had his Plan B, although explaining why or how was virtually impossible. “I will never shag as many as you have, or do half of what you do, but I don’t want to be labeled just yet either.”
Blake relaxed when Andrew replied with just the sort of expectations he ought to have if he wanted to get in and out of this without getting his feelings chewed up. No reason for anybody else to end up as fucked up as him, right? "Glad you're not looking to swoop in and take any nubile young virgins back to your castle, Dracula," he deadpanned. "Really, it's a relief." Blake returned the clap on the shoulder with a friendly goose on the ass, and then slid a fresh shot over to Andrew, still laughing. "Who's labeling? Seriously, though, you should try this shit. You'll go from bi-curious to bi-definite in about four shots, let me tell you."
“If I was looking for a nubile young virgin, I wouldn’t be standing here getting pissed with you,” he laughed, accepting the shot. He wasn’t sure he would be able to count shots past four or five, but that was the whole point. “Here’s what I want from you, mate. When I met you, I was jealous. All those bloody years, and all I got was some future title. I had to be a good little lad, follow all those bloody rules in how to be a royal. You had freedom. Before I have to go back and tie myself to the title, I want a taste.” Shaking his head, he held up the shot glass, “So here’s to living, and that bi-definite thing.”
Blake laughed at Andrew's retort. "Touché." He listened to Andrew spill the thing he wanted most, and he listened with a smile that was a little more knowing than it had any right to be. Andrew didn't know the half of it. "Careful what you wish for," he said, but didn't elaborate, and clinked glasses with his drinking companion. Sometimes, freedom came with a price. Personally, it was a price Blake hadn't actually wanted to pay. "But everybody deserves their taste." Really, Andrew had earned some freedom, trying to live up to everybody's expectations for so long. Blake knew what that was like, remembered being expected to carry a dynasty, and even though he'd been willing at the time, it had been a heavy mantle. Even now, slipped from his shoulders, it sometimes tripped him up, wound around his feet. “To living,” Blake said, and touched glasses with Andrew, downing his shot in one smooth swig. Oh yeah, he was going to feel this in the morning.
Andrew knew that price that he might end up paying in the end. He had calculated the risks, analyzed the potential. There was a lot to lose, but it was a necessity. Being denied all those years, he had begun to resent all that he was born to do. “I know.” He hesitated for a moment, taking a small sip off the glass, tasting it on his tongue. All the years he spent at Cambridge, watching the others get pissed at parties, make fools of themselves on the lawn while he watched from above in his suite. He had played the role for too long. “I plan on living, just short of being excommunicated.” He smiled, and took the shot down. It twisted his face, leaving him to gasp. “I don’t know how you do this.”
He definitely felt the alcohol, especially that last one. He was still coughing a bit, a moment later. He looked up from his sputtering at Blake, who was surely looking amused. “Did I tell you that I can’t take many of these things?” He hadn’t wanted too, but it was going to be more than obvious in the morning.
"Practice, practice, practice," Blake said, with a grin. It took skill and a lot of nights blackout drunk to have the sort of skill at absorbing alcohol his poor, beleaguered liver did. "Come on," he said. "You can do another round."
Promises, promises. A few hours later and even Blake had managed to get very, very drunk. Somewhere around the sixth shot he'd started feeling comfortably buzzed, and there had probably been a few more after that. He wasn't really sure. He just knew there had been something with a dancing debutante, who'd hopped up on one of the tables in a skirt that just barely covered all the interesting bits, and had proven, by providing everyone a look from below, that she liked a fine breeze around her nether regions. And there had been a proposition from a skittish twink nestled on the floor under one of the bar seats, who Blake gave his number and told to call him the next day.
All in all, it was a very productive evening. By the time the bar closed, ushering those who remained out onto the street, the valet would not bring Blake his car, probably for the best. He was having trouble keeping track of ground and sky, let alone a steering wheel. He gave the valet an extra hundred as a tip to keep the car in the lot overnight, and flagged down a cab with a grandiose gesture at the one closest to the curb. He opened the door for Andrew, holding it, and bowing his head. "Your highness. Your chariot...awaits you."
Andrew did have a good time at the club, dancing with the girl he had pointed out earlier. By the fourth shot, he was drunk, well past a buzz. It really didn’t take much, although the patrons seemed to enjoy him buying drinks for random people. He didn’t really have any idea that he was actually an attractive man, so he seemed to compensate with a healthy bankroll. The girl seemed to be a bit taken with him, although at the end of the night, he couldn’t remember her name, or that she wrote her number on his arm.
At the end of the night, he stumbled out after Blake, leaning against his back when he opened the door. “Thisssn’t your car,” he mumbled, slurring. “Whaad they do? Take it to wash?” He nearly tripped on Blake, climbing unceremoniously in the back, pulling Blake’s arm along behind him. He leaned back against the seats, laughing. His fingers reached up, twisting Blake’s hair. “Such a pretty... mm-boy.”
Blake slid uncerimoniously onto the seat next to Andrew and slammed the door shut. Then Andrew's hands were sliding through his hair, and he turned to look at him, and grinned. "Thank you," he said, with an entitled little toss of his head, and leaned against Andrew. The cab driver was staring at him in the rear view mirror, and it occurred to him that he hadn't mentioned an address. "The Wynn," he directed, and the driver pulled away from the curve.
Blake settled in against Andrew's arm. "I told you, I told you I'd getchoo wasted my friend." His grin widened even further, and he pecked him on the cheek, strangely chaste, and laughed, leaning back. He felt good. Like he'd set a goal for himself and accomplished it. He was good for something, right?
“I only haaad, ummm,” he held up six fingers, counting them somewhat. The actual count was five, but he had no idea. “MM, pissed.” His fingers continued to tangle in the dark locks. “Coming with me? You’cn stay.” He leaned closer to Blake, smelling the cologne now mixed with club smoke, and he wasn’t sure what else, nor did it really matter to his scrambled senses. “MMM, I likem red’n you rr pretty.” He wasn’t entirely sure he would get up to his room, or stop and just crash in the elevator - or attack Blake. The thought brought a grin. He returned the peck on Blake’s cheek, not quite as chaste.
Blake hummed, and took a deep breath of his scent. Andrew smelled good, alcohol and the musk of skin. That never got old. He tilted his head, looking down at Andrew where he was slumped. In the reflection of streetlights through the windows, slanting across his face and glittering in his eyes, he looked suddenly his age - older, just for a second, the facade falling away under the weight of alcohol and real pleasure, alongside a sort of distant, bittersweet amusement at everything. Then he shut his eyes and leaned back against the seat. Oh, fuck, and that sometimes happened too, when he was drunk. Honesty. He wasn't a fan of it. Like a fit, he just had to wait for it to pass, that impulse to say something that meant something. "Walk y'up?" he offered. He was probably too drunk to fuck, honestly, but he wasn't going to rule out a messy makeout session, if Andrew managed not to pass out before then. He was a little less drunk than him, so he might actually do the chivalrous thing and just tuck him into bed before ducking out to go throw up and pass out in his own apartment.
Andrew looked up at the looming building. It made his eyes hurt, and knotted his stomach. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, like the one he had on the way. He made a sound and pulled on Blake’s arm to get out of the cab with him. “Cmmon,” he said. He wasn’t considering how sick and hung over this would make him the next morning. He honestly didn’t think he had ever been this drunk, even the time he had lifted the bottle from his father’s office.
“Tellm to put the bleeding lights off,” he told the man who opened the door to the cab. The man was insistent on helping, even though Andrew pulled away. “Not a menege’a whatever. This’ss Blake.” The man backed off, respecting the heir apparent’s wishes, trying not to make a disgusted face at the drunk men.
His steps were not smooth, weaving left and right. He waited for Blake under the lights of the entrance. He walked in a small circle but even that left him dizzy. “Hurr’up. Take me home.”
Blake offered the man who tried to help a dazzling grin. He saw the disgust in his face and it sparked an endless anger in him, the kind that kept very very quiet until it was provoked. "Fuck-off, sweetheart," said Blake, still smiling, stll drunk, but a flashpoint of fury in that brief moment. Then he wrapped an arm around Andrew's waist and walked him into the building. "Floor?" Blake asked. He hoped Andrew remembered which floor he lived on, because Blake sure as hell didn't.
Andrew mumbled 4011. The floor number escaped him, although he knew the button for the 40th floor. “Going up?” he said, stepping back against Blake, quite by accident. He stayed, however, finding the other man comfortable. The ride up also did nothing for his stomach, even though it was still holding. He was happy when the doors opened and the horrible motion stopped.
He tried to straighten himself and staggered a step before righting again. “Come on, come in. or out. You don’wanna ride thhiss thing all night, nn yull get lost.” He might not remember this, but it didn’t matter now. “I don wan’you to leave yet.”
The elevator definitely wasn't Blake's best friend either, and he stumbled a little when the elevator jerked upward. The halt at the top was smooth, though - the building was expensive enough that it ought to be.
The offer to come in was difficult to refuse. Blake knew he should go back down to the idling cab, but he didn't really feel like braving the elevator again so soon. And somebody had to make sure, he fuzzily remembered, that Andrew fell asleep on his stomach. "Alright alright," he said, keeping a tight hold on Andrew as he staggered, supporting him. Blake couldn't walk straight, but he was a bit more sober than Andrew, enough that to try to keep him upright as they moved into the hall. "Didn't forget your keys, did ya?" Now that would be hilarious.
Andrew looked at the door like it was a foreign object. It didn’t open magically. His arm, that rested at Blake’s waist for support, dug into the other man’s pocket, looking for the card key. “You don’ave it. Where did’ja put it?” His other hand went to his back pocket, finding nothing. Checking his own front pocket, he came up with the card key, and a money clip with cash. He frowned and put the clip back, muttering under his breath at a blonde that wasn’t there.
He finally managed to open the door with the key on the third attempt. “Hey.” he grinned. “Smone really should ansr the door. Whatter they paying these peeple for? Come’m, Blake. Yer drunk. Cant drive like that.” He stepped out of shoes, heading for the bedroom of the suite. “My headss spinning.”
Blake chuckled when Andrew finally pulled out the key card. "I hid it in your pants," he observed, smirking. "I'm not...I'm not driving," he added, but let Andrew yank him inside. "Okay, okay, okay. But you're sleeping. No fucking. Not right now while your heads spinning. I'll spin your head when it's not spinning." He chuckled to himself, because that was hilarious, right?
He followed Andrew into the bedroom, and reached for the sleeves of Andrew's suit jacket to pull it off. "Come on," he said, and tugged again. "Sleepy time. Let's take this off."
Andrew wasn’t about to fight with Blake like this. The last thing he needed was sex. He had felt great in the cab, but now his senses were all wrong, and his stomach was getting worse. “Not so fass, Thorne.” All the tugging on his coat was tugging on his stomach. When the coat left, he flopped on the bed, shielding his eyes from the overhead light.
He scooted up, to the pillows. “Didn’know you wanted me in bed so badly,” he laughed. “Stop the room.” He closed his eyes against the motion, which seemed to help. “Next time, less’juss go to bed firs. If I wanna shot, I’ll lick it off yur chest.”
"...I can do that," Blake said, after a moment's thought. He smiled again, cheekily, and grabbed hold of the comforter, tossing it over Andrew. His hand-eye coordination wasn't so good right about now, but he did get it up and over him before nudging him to roll over. "On your stomach, baby. No ideas, now." He ran a rough hand through Andrew's hair affectionately. "Sleep tight, an' I'll climb in there with you next time. Okay?"
He couldn’t really argue with Blake. His body was turning to lead, even if his stomach wasn’t really cooperating. “MMM,” he said into the pillow. His eyes were closed, but he reached for Blake’s hand. “Blake,” he mumbled, trying to fight the cotton that seemed to be taking over his mouth, “member all the things in the paper bout you?” His words felt off, although he had been thinking it all night. Had he asked already? “Ar’you okay?”
Andrew’s eyes opened a little bit. He could see the tousled dark hair. He could also see him on the balcony that night, drink in hand, a cigarette possibly there too. They were friends. Andrew had followed the news when the story broke. He never believed that his friend was at fault, at least not the way the papers said. His sense of loyalty always won, and he didn’t give up on friends. He would help Blake the same way that he would with Trystan if needed. He had also known that Blake wasn’t quite the same as the man from the balcony, but after that, how could he be. It was just important that he was alright.
Blake was drunk enough that he didn’t hide the surprise on his face. He let it settle there, linger for a moment too long, and then slide without his consent into pain. It happened that fast. He despised it, and as soon as he realized what was happening, that he was headed back to that place, he smiled, maybe a little too wan to be real. He had hoped so that Andrew had forgotten that he hadn’t believed it, or that he bought Blake’s line. But there had to be a chink in his armor somewhere, something Andrew had noticed, even this drunk. He would need to find it, patch it up. The better the wall, the less it would hurt, eventually. That was the theory. “Yeah. I’m fine, sugar.” It wasn’t altogether convincing, and there was something vaguely fond in the sadness there. “Get some sleep.”
Andrew was nearly asleep, but he peeled one eye back with a light smile. He couldn’t see the man’s face really at all from his stomach, but he heard the voice. “MM’good. I didn’t believe all tha’shite anyway. I knew wasn you.” He was just stating a simple fact, which had enough conviction, even when drunk. If he was sober, his response would have been identical. “Nigh, Blake.”