i.

You don't do clubs. In fact, you kind of despise them.

They're hot, and crowded, and expensive. The lines are always too long, the music's always too loud and full of banal, obscene lyrics, half of which you don't even understand. And they never play Tears of Blood, or anything you might actually want to hear, anyway. They charge six bucks for a small can of domestic lite beer. (Not that you drink that much anyway, but just on principle alone, it's obscene.) And sure, the girls are nice to look at—tight jeans, short skirts, barely-there tops, lots of cleavage—but it's New York. So they all look back like they're too good for you, if they deign to look at all. And then there's the fact that you dance like a white boy who spent every Friday night in high school at home. Building robots. Painting D&D minis. Or leveling your gnome ice mage to 80. (So, in short, you don't.)

Now take all that and turn the dial up to eleven, and you have tonight: New Year's Eve.

You don't do New Year's Eve.

But it's the last New Year's Eve that Alex and Harper have together before they graduate—assuming that Alex does graduate—so the club was pretty much a given. And, for some inexplicable reason, she really wanted you there. (Probably because she knew how much you'd detest it. Because torturing you is her second-favorite hobby, after poking things with sticks.) And since you've never been able to say no to her—not when it was really important to her, anyway—you rolled your eyes, swallowed your misgivings about the fake ID she conjured up for you (that said you were twenty-one instead of nineteen), and promised her you'd come. Even though you knew it was a waste of a Friday night that could be better spent finishing your Intro to Modern Lit paper (or leveling your new worgen shaman alt to 85) and you'd hate every single second of it.

So, here you are, leaning against the bar. Overdressed in khakis and a dark blazer over a white T-shirt. Nursing a lukewarm, overpriced Bud Lite Lime that you won't even drink half of. Grimacing at the music and idly wondering what the hell a G-6 is even supposed to be.

Zeke and Harper are with you—which would normally be OK, since you know Zeke typically hates clubs as much as you do, and misery loves company—but ever since he got over his compunction to faint every time he so much as thought of Harper's lips, they've been going at it non-stop. Making up for lost time. So, naturally, they're sloppily making out next to you. It shouldn't bother you—after all, Zeke is your best friend and it's good to see him happy, plus it's finally gotten Harper off your back once and for all, thank God—but you can't help but grunt in annoyance and roll your eyes when he accidentally jabs you in the ribs with his elbow as he shifts his hold on her waist.

The hot blonde tending bar catches it. She tilts her head to the side to give you a look, her eyes full of pity. You shrug one shoulder at her as if to say 'it is what it is'. She just smiles knowingly at you before she looks away and tends to her next customer. You resist the urge to roll your eyes again. Take a swig of your beer instead, only your third since you first ordered it forty-five minutes ago.

Forty-five minutes. Ugh. Scowling, you check your watch again for what seems like the hundredth time since you got here. Cripes, where in the name of Captain Jim-Bob Sherwood is Alex, anyway? The sooner she gets here, the sooner you can leave, already. And maybe even manage to get home in time to watch the ball drop in Times Square on TV...

Speak of the devil. Even as you complete the thought, the crowd before you parts as if by magic. (Which is probably actually the case, if you know your sister even half as well as you think you do.) Alex sweeps in like she owns the place, with a vaguely familiar, generic-looking bad boy douchebag on her arm. She's straightened her hair and put on an impressive amount of make-up, the way she always does when she's trying to pass for older. She's wearing a strapless, glittery blue mini-dress that clings tightly to every curve of her slender figure like a second skin, with a slit up each side almost all the way up to her hip. And though you know she's a small B-cup at best, her breasts are still spilling out over the top of her dress, as though they might actually pop out of it if she so much as takes a deep breath. You wonder idly if she bought it a size too small on purpose, or if there's some kind of cleavage-enhanching charm she's discovered that you don't know about.

The overprotective older brother in you grimaces at the sight of her. At the way seemingly every guy in the club turns his head to check out her legs or her ass as she passes. But even as Alex glimpses Harper at the bar and shoves Zeke aside to envelop her in a hug, you find your own eyes drawn down to the tight curves of her behind.

Because...well, goddamn.

And that's when you remember why you agreed to this in the first place, even though you never really forgot. Why you've never been able to say no to her, even when it wasn't particularly important to her. And you start to hate yourself all over again, even though you've never really stopped.

Because as attractive as Alex is, and as fine an ass as she has, there's rules against this sort of thing. Laws, even. And every single one of them say that you, Justin Russo, are a sick, sick man.

After what seems like an eternity, you finally tear your gaze away from your sister's (incredible) rear end, overcome with familiar alternating waves of want, longing and shame. You close your eyes and try to pretend you haven't just sprung wood at the sight of your baby sister in a tighter-than-tight dress. Raising your beer to your mouth, you take a long pull on the can to distract yourself. But, because you're you, part of it naturally goes down the wrong way. You start to choke, doubling forward to cough violently.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, somebody's hand starts pounding you on the back between your shoulder blades, nearly knocking you to the floor. And it helps with the coughing and all, but ow! You start to wave them off even before you've fully caught your breath, afraid that one more thud like that might actually drive your spine clear through your chest.

"You all right, bud?" somebody shouts in your ear, still barely audible over the pounding bass of whatever godforsaken rap "song" they're playing now.

You cough weakly one last time and nod. Wipe the back of your hand across your mouth and stand upright. And you find yourself looking into the grinning face of the douchebag Alex has brought with her tonight.

Oh. Great.

"Goes down smooth, huh?" he jokes, and glances down at the can you're holding to see what you're drinking. "Maybe you oughta switch to something without so much kick, man. Like, uh...I dunno, Kool-Aid?"

You blink at this, then narrow your eyes at him. You feel your cheeks burning as your mind races, struggling to come up with a witty retort to put this complete and utter douche in his place. But before you can so much as open your mouth, he throws his head back and cackles—actually cackles—then reaches up to punch you in the shoulder, so hard that you spill a little of your beer onto your good church shoes.

"Just kidding, bro, just kidding," he says, as though this should somehow excuse him ruining a pair of perfectly good shoes. "You're Lexi's brother, yeah?"

"Lexi?" you frown. Who the frakking frak is Lexi? "Wait, do you mean Alex?"

"Alex, yeah...sorry, Lexi's like my pet name for her, or whatever."

"Cute,"' you say, without enthusiasm. Because, seriously, Lexi? It makes her sound like a comic book super villain! Which, yes, is oddly fitting if you really stop and think about it, but...seriously, Lexi?

And while you've been processing all that, Douchebag has been staring at you. Awkwardly. He raises one eyebrow slightly. "So...you're her brother, then?"

"That I am. Lexi's big brother," you say, your voice positively dripping with derision, though you suspect that the subtle nuance of your tone is probably lost on this dude. Especially given that you're competing with Whip My Hair. But then—because you weren't raised in a barn and there's no excuse for discourtesy, even in the face of utter douchery—you extend your hand to him.

"Justin," you introduce yourself.

He grips it tightly, and practically grinds it into a fine powder as he gives it a shake. "Yeah, that's me," he grins.

You blink at him, puzzled enough that you ignore the crushing pain in your hand. "Wait, I'm sorry? Did I miss a step?"

"Sooooo, this is awkward," Alex says then, breaking into the conversation as she sidles up next to Douchebag, picks his arm up by the wrist and drapes it across her bare shoulders. "Justin, this is that lame older brother I've been telling you about, also Justin."

You look from her, to him, and back again. "You're kidding."

"Oh, wild!" Douchebag says, pumping and squeezing your hand even harder. "Dude, we have the same name!"

"Spectacular," you grunt, twisting your elbow awkwardly to free your hand, before all you're left with is a bloody stump. "I couldn't be more thrilled that we have this in common."

"I know, right?" Douchebag shouts. "Effed up!"

"The effed uppedest," you say drily, one eyebrow raised. "Normally I'd say that at least this gives you a fifty-fifty chance of remembering what my name is. But let's be honest, I'd just be kidding myself, wouldn't I?"

Douchebag looks at you blankly, clearly trying to work out whether he's just been insulted or not, then slowly breaks into a grin and begins to nod. "Oh, I get it: because I'm gonna get so wasted, I'll forget my own name, huh?"

"That's one hypothesis, sure," you shrug. (Ooo, sick burn.)

Alex scowls at you, even as her boyfriend-of-the-moment throws his head back and cackles again. Douchebag may not be able to discern snark to save his life, and you're not especially conversant in it, yourself, but Alex speaks it like a second language.

"Justin, knock it off," she snaps. "Quit acting like such a dick."

"Sorry," you and Dumbass both say sheepishly, in the same breath, then look at each other. Him, in surprise. You, in annoyance. Alex rolls her eyes dramatically.

"Yeah, so that's gonna get old quick," she snorts loudly over the music. "We need to find something else to call one of you."

"I already have something in mind," you say, earning you another scowl from Alex.

"Well, most of my boys call me J-Man," Douchebag offers.

You glare at him, even as you see a smirk blossom on Alex's face out of the corner of your eye. "Of course they do," you mutter darkly.

"D'awwwwww, how precious!" Alex coos, her dark eyes dancing as she watches for your reaction. "And did you pick that out for yourself?"

"What?" Douchebag scoffs at her. "Um, no. What kind of lame asshole picks out his own nickname?"

"Exactly," she says, smiling smugly at you, even as you feel your cheeks begin to burn. And though you're not six anymore, and haven't been for a long time, you really have to fight the urge to stick out your tongue at her. Old habits.

"Pick it out myself," Douchebag repeats, chuckling and shaking his head at Alex, amused. He turns his gaze back to you, then jerks his chin back towards her. "Chicks, huh bro? Am I right?"

"Indeed," you nod sagely, although you're not quite sure what it is about them that you're supposed to be agreeing with, exactly. "Chicks."

"Aaaaaand that's all the time we have tonight for male bonding," Alex says, turning to Douchebag and jerking one thumb over her shoulder. "Shots. Dancing. Now."

"Whatever you say, baby," he grins at her, and gestures towards the bar. "Tonight, anything Sexy Lexi wants, Sexy Lexi gets."

"Aw, it's adorable that you think that's limited to tonight," Alex grins, reaching up to pat him gently on the cheek. "Isn't it, egghead?"

"Not if he's smart enough to cut and run while he still can," you say flatly, grimacing as you take a sip of your beer. "But, really, what are the chances of that?'

Alex shoots you a cutting look as she unwinds Douchebag's arm from around her shoulders, and tugs him in the general direction of the bar. "Later, loser. Try not to bore yourself to sleep before midnight hits, huh?"

"Don't worry," you sneer back. "I'm sure all the hooting and hollering will wake me up when Sexy Lexi inevitably pops out of her ridiculous dress."

Douchebag's eyes light up like Rockefeller Center at Christmas at the prospect, earning him a look from Alex that's at least as dirty as the one she gives you as she moves away.

Douchebag rolls his eyes and shrugs as she pulls his away, then hangs back at the last second and points at your Bud Light. "Brewski for you-ski? Or you good for now?"

Wow, seriously? "Brewski for you-ski?" Heavens to Mergatroid, where did she find this guy? The set of Dude, Where's My Car, Too?

"I'm good, thanks," you say, smiling tightly, hoping he takes the hint and goes the hell away, already. "Pacing myself."

"Right on, broham," he says, giving you a thumbs up. "But come find me once the chicks hit the floor, and we'll really get our drink on, fo' sho'!"

You nod at him noncommittally, holding up your beer in a kind of half-hearted toast, but he's already forgotten about you as Alex yanks him over to the bar to pay for the line of shots the hot blonde bartender is already lining up for them. He leers at her over the top of Alex's head, even as he slides his hand down your sister's side until it's resting on her ass.

The blonde doesn't so much as acknowledge him at all, but she does glance up once in the middle of pouring, her heavily-mascara'ed blue eyes flitting from you to Alex and back again, and shoots you another pitying look.

Swell. Man, are you really so smegging obvious?

Groaning in frustration, you turn your back on the three of them and reach behind the seemingly three dozen people who have managed to worm their way into the small space that was between you and Zeke, and poke him on the shoulder. He ignores you, even after three tries, so you resort to smacking him upside the head. Finally, this gets his attention, and he and Harper come up for air for the first time in what seems like an eon. He blinks at you dazedly, his face flushed.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks with a grin, his voice cracking as he struggles to be heard over the music. "Everything OK, J-Man?"

You wince and groan audibly. "Zeke, don't call me that."

"What? Don't ball your cat? I don't know what that—"

"I said don't call me J-Man!"

Zeke blinks at you in confusion. "But I thought you loved being called J-Man, J-Man! Heck, you asked me to! Remember, back in Grade 10, when we met in Alien Language League? And I asked you what your name was? 'Call me J-Man!' you said..."

"Ugh, just forget it!" you groan, scrubbing your face tiredly with your hand. You glare past Zeke at Harper, who's been listening to your exchange with amusement as she occupies herself by blowing in his ear. "Harper, what the hell? You couldn't have warned me that Alex was bringing another guy, tonight? Or that his flipping name was Justin?"

"Woah, seriously?" Zeke asks, his eyebrows shooting so high on his forehead that they threaten to launch into orbit. "Alex is dating a guy named Justin? Holy double-you-tee-eff, Batman!"

"I tried to talk her out of it, Justin, honest," Harper says, and she at least has the good grace to look sheepish about it. "And not just 'cause it's...icky...either. We barely know him—he just started at NYU around the corner from the Sub Station in the fall—but he doesn't have the greatest reputation when it comes to girls. Or, um, anything else, really. Actually, from everything I've heard, he's kind of a—"

"Wannabe fratboy douchebag?"

Harper flushes darkly, and shrugs. "Not the phrase I would have chosen, but if the bag fits..."

"But what the hell is she even doing wasting her time with somebody like that?" you demand, craning your neck to try and see her over the heads of the crowd. "And what the friggin' frig is she wearing?"

"Oh, that," Harper says, her voice heavy with disapproval. "I swear her dress was at least two sizes larger when I left the house. Just between us, I'm pretty sure she—" Harper breaks off with a quick look at Zeke, then turns her eyes back to you and wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully—"uh, had it specially altered, if you catch my drift?"

"What, in forty-five minutes?" Zeke whistles, impressed. "Man, that's one quick-working seamstress! I can't even get a pair of pants hemmed that fast!"

"Terrific," you growl. You give up trying to find Alex in the shifting crowd, and turn around to slump against the bar, leaning heavily on your elbows. "So she's really into this dipstick, then. She's actually going out of her way to encourage him. "

"Mmm, yes and no," Harper says, cocking an eyebrow. "She's certainly going out of her way, but I don't think it's for his benefit, at all."

"No?" You straighten up suddenly in spite of yourself, wondering a second too late if they hear more than just idle curiosity and brotherly concern in your voice. "If not him, than who—?"

"Who else?" Harper sighs, nodding towards you, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere to your left. Blinking, you swivel your head in the direction she's looking...and find yourself overcome with a all-too-familiar surge of jealousy and loathing as you realize who she means.

"Oh, of course," you say bitterly. "Him."

Author's Note: Just a word of warning to my regular readers, this story comes from somewhat of a different place than my usual light-hearted fare. It's also my first foray into writing both angst and in second-person, so please adjust your expectations accordingly. )

A copious amount of gratitude goes to my lovely and talented beta, Not Just A Nerd, who helped to tighten it up where necessary, and more or less held my hand throughout. This is another story that would be sitting unfinished on my hard drive, were it not for her encouragement to finish.

Thanks! Hope you enjoy it!