Chapter Text
Race was forgetting something.
There had been a plan, right? A something. It hadn’t started with a plan, he knew that. It had started with a drinking game. You had given him a fake mustache the day before, which he promptly stuck onto his TV. When he watched Arrested Development, every time the mustache lined up perfectly with somebody’s face, he downed a shot.
He had gotten so drunk.
You should never have given him that mustache.
You.
What was it about you? That seemed familiar. He remembered something about you, and something about a plan. The plan had come after the shots, but he wasn’t sure where you came in.
Think, Race. Think. He would be seeing you later that day, in the class you shared at your college. He could always ask you what it had been, but if you weren’t actually involved, he didn’t want to drag you in. There had been times that he had drunkenly ranted about how great you were to the guys. If it had just been something like that, you didn’t have to know.
He grabbed his phone, wincing against the light of the screen in the dark of his room. Maybe he had texted somebody about you?
That search did lead to something: he had texted Albert the night before.
Race: Im gonna do it
Albert: do what?
Race: tell Y/N how I feel
Albert: now?
Race: friggin yes
Albert: friggin no. ur too drunk. dont do anything stupid
Race: done and done
Race frowned. He frowned at his phone. He frowned at the mirror in the bathroom. He frowned at his coffee. He frowned at the guy sitting across from him on the subway, though the poor man seemed utterly baffled about why. He didn’t remember talking to you. He didn’t remember telling you about how totally, recklessly in love with you he was.
He could call you, just to feel out how you were feeling. If he had said something, you would probably tell him, right? He called, but got your voicemail.
“Hey! This is Y/N Y/L/N’s phone, but obviously I’m not coming to the phone right now. If I missed your call, I’ll call back when I can. If I skipped your call, I probably won’t get back to you. Ever. Please leave a message after the beep!”
Oh. My. God.
That was familiar. That was it. That was you. That was the plan.
You had given him that mustache, he had gotten drunk, and he had decided to tell you how he felt. He had called you, but you hadn’t answered. He left you a message instead, undeterred by your absence.
“Y/N,” he had slurred into the phone. “I wanted to thank you for that mustache. It went on Jason Bateman’s face, like, thirty times. It was almost as good as it would be on your face. It would be great on your face, Y/N. I love your face. I love your everything. I love you, and I am going to McFreaking lose it!”
With that, a very pleased Race had hung up the phone. He had gone to bed, sure that everything was perfect now that you knew. Now, a very sober Race really was ready to “McFreaking lose it.” He was an idiot; he would always have readily admitted that. Now, however, he was an idiot who had confessed his love to the most perfect girl in the world, in the most ridiculous way possible.
He could call you again and leave a message, apologizing for his drunken self. Or he could try to tell you again, in words more fitting. Or, he finally decided, he would pretend it never happened. If you asked him about it, he wouldn’t lie. If you ignored it, he would go on as though he wasn’t the biggest tool on the planet.
That afternoon, you grinned at him when he walked into class. “You look like garbage, Race.”
He smiled shakily. “I got hammered last night.”
“Worth it?”
He winked at you. Play it cool, Higgins. Be yourself. “Isn’t it always?”
You treated him like always, and said nothing about the voicemail.
Race: Meg Ryan looks great with this mustache
Y/N: what are you watching?
Race: When Harry Met Sally
Y/N: that is the greatest of all movies
Y/N: I’m coming over
“You’re right,” you agreed. “Meg Ryan rocks that look.” You were sitting next to him on the couch, cradling a bowl of popcorn on your lap. Race wasn’t an idiot; he had his own bowl. He wasn’t sure what kind of person would rather share a bowl of popcorn than have their own, but he was not one of them. You had been over to his house before, so seeing you on his couch was not a novelty. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t having heart palpitations, but still.
Race hadn’t gotten out the alcohol. He had learned his lesson last time, and he didn’t need to say anything stupid to you now, when he couldn’t be sure that the two of you weren’t trying to fake being okay until you really were.
As though you were reading his mind, you gave him a sideways smile. “You know the drinking game with the mustache, right?”
“Yeah,” he replied, the picture of calm. “I played it the other night.”
“Jason Bateman?”
His heart sank. You knew. This conversation was happening. “Arrested Development.”
You weren’t looking at him. Some conversations were best had without eye contact, or any contact at all. “I know you were drunk when you left that message.”
“Word,” he agreed.
“I know that sometimes people say things they don’t mean when they’re drunk,” you continued. You were rolling a piece of popcorn back and forth between your fingers, squeezing it until it squeaked.
“Sometimes people do,” he agreed. He didn’t, not that night, but he would let you draw incorrect conclusions if it made you happier.
“So I’m not going to hold the whole “I love you” thing against you, but if you really do love my face, you should take my face out on a date.”
“Seriously?” Race was almost too afraid to hope. He wanted to take your face out to dinner. He wanted to have a do-over with his declaration of love, but only once he knew you would say it back.
“Seriously,” you said. You were smiling at him, the picture of perfection, and all of the anxiety Race had been feeling since leaving that message spilled out. He huffed out a laugh.
“If you’re joking, I’m going to McFreaking lose it.”
“Nope. Do you want to take my face out, or what?” You ate a few pieces of popcorn, like you didn’t care, but you could see the way you studiously looked at the bowl. You were nervous.
“I really want to take your face out,” he said. He also wanted to hold your hand, and since it seemed to be a good day for getting what he wanted, he did. You smiled down at your intertwined fingers, and Race started to think over how he could tell you again without mucking it up.