danny &/ jackson drunk!fic. originally written for rubato on 09/16/2012.

.

.

Jackson hates seeing you upset. Won't say it in words, but his face crumples up like there's words lodged in his throat he doesn't know how to articulate.

Feelings, then—not words. Just a tumultuous mess of things that neither of you know how to touch or put a name to.

"Man, y'all are so fucking repressed," is something Ramirez might say, muttering under his breath as he walks away which—OK, so you don't think Coming Out is a requirement or anything, but you are out and he isn't and there's a safety net with that and you don't like it but you do resent him for it, the tiniest bit, because he's Alejandro Ramirez, Puerto Rican lacrosse player, while you're the Gay (Hawaiian) Lacrosse Player, Danny Mahealani and it gets tiring after a while—but you're bigger than a petty come back, and you put a hand on Jackson's arm in case he decides that he isn't and you feel the muscles flex and you try not to think about how much you miss him.

Not Jackson, obviously, because he's right beside you—though sometimes he looks so distant it's like he's in another galaxy—but fuck if you don't miss the feeling of a warm body pressed against you. The understanding that you can reach out and touch that body, kiss that body. That this body—this person, this man—can reach out and do the same to you. With you.

It's not so much that you miss Steve so much as you miss what he was to you: a warm body, wet lips, rough hands.

Those are the nights you go to Jungle and dance until you forget who you are, drink cheap alcohol and flirt with strangers. Maybe fool around with a hot guy if you're lucky, but it's just... it's not the same as being with someone and you feel like such a sorry piece of flesh because of it.

Because you never loved him, but you liked him. Liked being with him. Liked being with someone, and you don't know who to turn to because "everybody loves Danny", but who wants to hear about Danny having Relationship Issues. Danny Wanting to Get Laid. Danny Wanting a Boyfriend, Or At Least Someone To Screw. ?

You don't want to hear about it and it's your own damn life.

And, sure, Jackson might be your best friend but he isn't someone you go to for Talking About Feelings if you had the ability to put words to things (it isn't always easy for you). But you can go to him in a bad mood and he'll look at you funny and talk about pointless stupid shit and break out the booze and you'll both drown out sorrows you refuse to talk about.

You've learned in time that beer is good for socializing, and vodka mixes well, but brandy is good for that slow burn in your mouth and your throat and downdowndown it goes. It burns so good and Jackson knows it as well as you do, because he gives you what you need.

Don't even need to ask for it, he'll just uncap the bottle, take a swig, and offer it to you. And you'll take the bottle and put your lips to the mouth; feel the burn and the beginnings of tears and you wipe your mouth and the two of you are silent.

The both of you are silent and not-content-but-content and your house is bright and loud and too-full of people while his is dark and empty and somehow you still hole up in just his room, sitting too close and drinking amber liquid that's not cold enough.

Nothing's enough.

He doesn't like seeing you upset and you don't like being upset, but what does that matter? At the end of the day you're still so lonely it's like a hole in your gut and you can sit in a dark room and drink—but it doesn't go away.

You could reach over and kiss him—and you've done it before, the two of you, so you're pretty sure it's on the table if you're feeling sad and pathetic enough to go for it—and crush your lips against his and his body would strain against yours and hands would stay above belts—you've talked about this—but the more you think about this the sadder you feel because he's your friend and you love him (despite yourself, really), but.

You don't want him like that. Don't like the idea of using him like that, even when the two of you are so close that your breath and heat feed off each other.

It's intimate. It's cosmic.

You're the opposite of sober.