Author's Note: This is the first part of a planned twoshot that is sort of a sequel to one of my other oneshots, named Tequila; however, it can also be read as a standalone. It is also my birthday present for The Reader's Muse, who is absolutely lovely and whom I adore quite a lot. xo.
Warnings: For this part, just language and consumption of alcohol.
Saturday Night.
Daryl Dixon loved Saturday nights. He supposed that he wasn't the only one who did; it seemed to be the general consensus of twentysomethings in America that Saturday was the best day of the week, the one day where you weren't accountable to your job, where you were, essentially, able to do whatever the fuck you wanted to. It was the one day of the weekend where you weren't still tired from work or too hungover to do anything more than watch crap television all day.
Really, those reasons in themselves were enough to make Saturday his favorite day of the week. But it was more than that for him, more than just a day off from work. Saturday's were his day off from being him, from being Daryl Dixon. It was the only day of the week where he could get away from his brother Merle, get away from the image he'd had forced upon him by merely growing up in his piece of shit small town.
It was the only day of the week when he could go to Atlanta.
Every Saturday evening, once his brother had headed out to one of the numerous biker bars that dotted the countryside around their town, Daryl would take off in his pickup for the hour long drive to Atlanta, freshly showered and dressed in the least ripped pair of jeans he owned. He was always nervous on the ride there, cigarette jammed in his mouth, fingers nervously drumming on the steering wheel, terrified that he would look behind him and see Merle's bike following him. Then he'd have to explain why he was dressed 'like a fag' and really, he was pretty sure that Merle wouldn't be too happy if he'd told him that the reason he was dressed like one was because he was one.
The only possible outcomes for that scenario all involved his blood coating the hardtop and that was something that really made his stomach churn.
But by the time he reached the outskirts of the city, coasting by suburbia without any sign of Merle's bike, that nervousness floated away, replaced by giddy... butterflies, in the general vicinity of his stomach. The feeling only increased as he made his way into the downtown core, scanning for a parking spot that wouldn't bankrupt him.
As soon as he stepped into the bar, however, even those butterflieswere gone. Once he made his way through the queue and into the smoky, pulsating air of the bar, he was back into his true element, back to where he truly felt comfortable. He stopped worrying about Merle and what all his work buddies would think if they knew where he was, stopped thinking about what his Pa would think if he hadn't drank himself to death nearly a decade ago. He stopped thinking like Daryl Dixon and just let himself become Daryl, a completely different individual who belonged.
And oh God was it fun to be just Daryl. He never tired of it, of just throwing himself into the night, soaking up drink after drink and letting all the tension from the week drain out of his shoulders as he threw back shots; some that he had paid for, but mostly ones that someone else had bought him, the first step in securing his company until the early morning light.
But this particular Saturday night was different. Usually, Daryl let the men come to him, let them be the ones to offer him drinks until he found one he was particularly stuck on.
A man, he meant. Not a drink.
But the instance he submerged himself into the bar on this particular summer Saturday, his skin lightly dusted with sweat, he realized that, for once, he wanted to be the pursuer. He wanted to be the one who made the first move, who bought the drinks, who leaned in for the kiss first. He wanted to be the one in control.
It wasn't long before he found him, the one he'd been looking for, sitting alone at the bar, looking like he'd walked straight in from a college campus. Indeed, the closer he got to the man, the more he looked like a kid still in college, his hair buried underneath a baseball cap, head tilted back as he poured a shot of clear alcohol down his throat. The action exposed his long, smooth as hell neck and Daryl immediately beelined for the bar, determined to stake his claim if possible. Snagging the barstool next to his target, he took a quick glance, nibbling on the corner of his mouth. The man was Asian and quite young, definitely a student if he'd ever seen one. Daryl couldn't help but grin; he had a sneaking suspicion that a fake ID was somehow involved in the equation.
"Hey." With that one word, the kid practically fell off of the bar stool, jolting like Daryl had stabbed him with a cattle prod or something electrical. It'd been hard to tell from across the bar but the kid had obviously already drank quite an amount; his balance was more than a little fucked and the sheepish grin plastered on his face practically spelled inebriated.
That didn't make him any less good looking, however. Up close, Daryl could see just how perfect the kid's skin was, how unflawed, completely void of the scars Daryl was peppered with. He was still dressed rather ridiculously for the environment, decked out in a plain t-shirt and baggy jeans and that goddamn hat, but none of that detracted (much) from the fact that he was still gorgeous.
"You gonna say something or you already drunk?" That did the trick; Daryl truly loved just how prideful men were, especially young men who were drunk whether or not they admitted it. The kid immediately made an effort to sit up straight, adjusting his shirt like he was a goddamn peacock. preening his feathers. When he was done fixing himself up, Daryl stuck his hand out, offering himself up like a proper gentlemen.
"Name's Daryl," he said, leaning in closer so he could be heard over the pounding bass. The kid grabbed his hand a little too eagerly, wavering every so slightly on his stool. The skin of his palm was incredibly soft, not callused or cracked like everyone else he knew and Daryl couldn't help but hold on a little longer than was normal, letting his fingers slowly slip away.
"Glenn," the kid finally said, that grin getting even wider. The damn thing was contagious; even as Daryl found himself waving for the bartender, he could feel himself smiling like a goddamn teenager.
"Can I buy you a drink?" The kid nodded swiftly, his head looking like it was going to fly right off his neck. When the bar tender brought back their shots, Glenn held his up into the air, tilting it at a rather dangerous angle.
Maybe he was a little too drunk.
"Cheers," he said, winking before draining the shot in one practiced gulp. After only a moment's hesitation, Daryl did the same, wincing only the slightest as the liquid burned against his esophogus. When he slammed the glass back down, he noticed that the kid was leaning even closer to him, head propped up on his elbow, gnawing gently on the corner of his mouth. It was a look that suited him far too well and the only way Daryl could think to describe it was coy, like the kid was playing hard to get on purpose.
If that was the game Glenn wanted to play, then he could play right back.
"Bartender!"