Author's note: I know I said I wouldn't update again tonight, but I just had to write this. Actually, it was meant to be fluff, but it didn't quite turn out that way. -sigh-. Anyway, just so everyone knows, none of us have never in our life been drunk, so I know nothing about how it actually works. This is what my imagination gave me when I asked it what being drunk was like. Oh, and pissed is a British word for drunk, for any Americans who don't know that. Dang, writing this has affected my mood. Now I'm all loopy and out of it. I don't think this is normal, do you?
Disclaimer: I like Draco too much to be J.K. Rowling.
--Tamara

11. In Which Blaise makes a mistake

He wouldn't have said it if he hadn't been drunk. And he wouldn't have been drunk if Weasley hadn't gone out to get them muggle drinks. And Weasley wouldn't have gotten out of the house if Blaise hadn't picked the lock. And Blaise wouldn't have picked the lock if Weasley hadn't looked at him with those damn puppy eyes and demanded to be let out. But, in the end, it didn't really matter why he'd said it. What mattered was that he had said it, and now he couldn't take it back.

He hadn't meant to. They'd been talking… and drinking. They were entitled, after all! Both of them were of age – well, nearly of age – and, after all, they were on holiday. It wasn't as thought they were at school or anything, right? Draco and Potter probably did this kind of thing all the time! Not that Draco's behavior was anything to go on, but even so…

Weasley was clearly unused to alcohol, judging from the amount it took to get him rolling drunk. Blaise had a better head for the stuff than the other boy, but even he hadn't had much experience with it. He was only sixteen, after all. His mother might not have cared, but she didn't go out of her way to expose him to things, either. He knew she drank – he couldn't help it, the way she carried on after a bottle or so – but she'd never shown him where she kept her stash and he'd never looked for it. That wasn't to say he was completely inexperienced – no friend of Draco's could be inexperience in matters of alcohol – but he wasn't anywhere close to making a habit of it either.

It had started out as a game. A stupid muggle game that Weasley had played with his kid sister at a party once. Or maybe he'd played it with Potter at a party. The details were a bit fuzzy. But it didn't matter. The point was that Weasley knew the rules, and Blaise was too pissed by that point to object. So they sat down across from each other and, still passing the bottle, began asking each other questions. Apparently the game was called something along the lines of, "truth or dare," which didn't really make any sense, but what the hell? Nothing made much sense.

They'd been pretty far in the game – and pretty far through the second bottle… or maybe it was the third – when the real questions began. They'd long ago dispensed with the dares, finding such things impractical when both of them had more than a little trouble standing. All right, so neither of them could even really sit up straight anymore. The warm glow of alcohol in his belly gave Blaise the courage to lean against Weasley in ways he would never even have considered sober.

And then Weasley asked The Question. The one that brought Blaise crashing down from his soaring high and back to the real world. He doubted Weasley even knew what he'd asked, smashed as he was. It was just one more in a series of increasingly lewd questions. Weasley couldn't know how this one affected Blaise… could he?

"C'm on," Weasley slurred, leaning close again. "Ansher the queshion. Who d'you want to fuck mosht?"

Oh, hang it all. It couldn't really hurt things, could it? After all, it really was only a matter of time before Weasley found out, wasn't it? Still Blaise hesitated, and Weasley's eyes lit up with triumph.

"I knew it!" he crowed, and Blaise's stomach dropped. "It'sh Malfoy, ishn't it?"

Draco? Of course it wasn't Draco! What did Draco have to do with anything? That wasn't the right answer! But Blaise nodded anyway, the modicum of self-preservation he had left making him agree to the outrageous statement.

"I've known for a long time," Weasley confided. "It'sh obvioush."

Was it? Blaise certainly hadn't intended for it to be. He racked his brains with very little success, trying to think if he'd been flirting with Draco. He certainly hoped he hadn't been. He didn't want to die, and trying to steal Harry Potter's boyfriend, even unintentionally, seemed a good way to do it.

"I won't tell, though," Weasley continued, oblivious to Blaise's confusion. "I know what it'sh like." He reached over and patted Blaise's shoulder. "You can tell me. It'sh all right. I undershtand."

Blaise winced and pulled away. He was in no mood for drunk sympathy. His previous alcohol-induced euphoria was vanishing rapidly, leaving nothing but irritability and annoyance. He stood, swaying. Weasley watched as he left the room, hanging on to any objects he could find, a feat made difficult by the fact that everything seemed to have doubled and was having lots of trouble staying still. He hoped they hadn't been using magic. Draco would kill them if they were found out.

He finally managed to attain the bed and collapsed onto it. He stuck his head under the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get the world to stop spinning around him. Did people actually enjoy this? They must be crazier than Blaise had imagined.

Weasley came up a long time later, singing slightly under his breath. He was off key, but Blaise didn't notice. Not that he would have cared. Weasley flopped onto his side of the bed and rolled over, going to sleep immediately. Blaise watched him for a long time, thinking that the moonlight on his skin was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He reached out and gently stroked Weasley's cheek.

"It's not Draco," he whispered. "It's you. It's always been you."

He pulled his hand away and turned over himself, ready to attempt sleep. Only as he was finally drifting off did he realize with horror that Weasley hadn't, in fact, been snoring.