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Here’s what he remembers.
It’s official. The day has arrived. Dylan ‘The Man’ O’Brien can legally drink. Dylan feels like he should say some words to mark this momentous occasion.
“Wooooooo! This club is AWESOME!”
Posey grins and hands him another drink. This one is a suspicious shade of neon pink.
“Great party!” Posey yells back over the pounding bass of the club music.
It’s less organized “party” and more the result of Dylan mass texting, “Will be 21. Club One @ midnight. BE THER.” to everyone in his contact list.
He’d then had to call his grandma back and explain that he sent her the text by accident, and that he was talking about a Bible study club for people in night school. But still, lying to his Nana aside, is the party his best idea ever or best idea ever? Everyone he knows is here, people from the movie, people from “Teen Wolf”, people he hasn’t seen since middle school. And the best part is, they’re all buying him drinks! In an increasingly ridiculous rainbow of colors.
Best. Birthday. Ever.
Dylan grabs Posey and spins them both off towards the dance floor like a graceful gazelle. Because it’s his birthday so Dylan is badass like that and fuck, this drink is badass too. And hey, look! More people!
Dylan squints over the mini-umbrella to see if he knows who just arrived. Or if he knows if he knows them. Or if he knows that he knows…something. And hey, Dylan knows who that is. It’s Hoechlin!
“Guys! Hoechlin's here!” Dylan screams to the club in general. That might have come out in volume and pitch more suited for a twelve year old girl, but his super-secret crush came to his birthday party! He’s allowed to be a little excited.
Dylan elbows his way through the throng toward Hoechlin. He senses a distinct lack of Posey behind him, but that’s ok because now he has a replacement Tyler. And replacement Tyler is wearing his hipster glasses! And his hipster hat! In a club. That’s hilarious.
“Hey, Heckkle...Hocock...other Tyler! Hey other Tyler! Hey other Tyler's hat! We’re in a club for my birthday.”
Tyler grins, “I know, man! Can I buy you a drink?”
Dylan may have had a daydream or two in which Tyler asked him that exact question and Dylan responded with something suave and seductive.
“I have a drink!” he yells instead, waving the glass in wide arcs, because maybe Tyler can’t see it around the hipster frames, “It’s called a ‘Bahama mama ding dong’!”
~*~
And so the evening goes. Dylan stops attempting to drink’n’dance eventually, but only after he catches Holland and Colton holding their cell phone cameras out at him and snickering. Dylan may not be ‘sober’ per se, but there’s no drunk enough to ignore those snickers. They mean future pain and embarrassment. Which is something he’s sure he’ll care about later.
As he meanders off to less crowded parts of the club, he sees Hoechlin chatting with Crystal in a side booth.
“Happy party! Imma sit here with you?” he asks, dropping down next to Tyler.
“Happy birthday!” says Crystal, “How does it feel to be the big two-one?”
“A-maaaaa-zing,” Dylan sing-songs, swaying against Tyler and whoa, this sitting thing is hard. Tyler’s hand comes up to steady him, but before Dylan can thank him, he notices something sad.
“Tyler,” he cries, “you don’t have a drink!”
Tyler sighs, like this isn’t the first time this evening he’s explained this. “Do you have any idea how many empty calories are in those things? Not to mention carbs and sugars?”
He perks up, “Actually my trainer told me something really interesting the other day, did you know...”
Dylan looks over at Crystal who just rolls her eyes. Tyler’s still talking about metabolic rates or how to get a body that would make Michelangelo weep or something. Dylan looks down at the “electric blue lagoon” in his hands, but it holds no answers. Unless... Oh man, he’s a genius!
“Here” Dylan interrupts. He pulls the slice of pineapple off the edge of the glass and holds it up to Tyler’s mouth. “Healthy.”
Tyler freezes mid-word. Dylan has a moment to wonder if, hey, maybe this is a little weird, but then Tyler’s slowly leaning forward. He bites the piece of pineapple out of Dylan’s fingers, the edge of his lip just brushing Dylan’s thumb.
Across the table, Crystal gasps and starts to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Dylan.” Tyler chews. “She’s just laughing because your party is so fun. Right, Crystal?”
“Mm hm,” she giggles.
Dylan nods. He does throw great parties.
~*~
They’ve been sitting in a booth long enough to have built up an impressive collection of glasses in front of Dylan, and an equally impressive pile of orange rinds and cherry stems in front of Tyler. Dylan’s finally gotten to the point where he’s pretty sure most of his drinks are ending up on the floor and not in him. Which is probably good, for reasons of alcohol poisoning avoidance.
Also, his lips are numb. He should inform someone of this. Conveniently, he's been using Hoechlin's shoulder structural support, like a buttress, since about man-tini number three, so that's right there to inform.
"Heyyyyyyyy Heck. Heck. Heck..." he mumbles into the soft cotton of Tyler’s shirt.
"Yeah, Dyl?" The cotton shifts over muscle as Tyler leans down to him. Big stupid muscle.
"Lips're numb, and you're a butt-rest."
There’s a long pause. And Dylan’s just starting to think that this would be an awesome place for a nap when Big Rock Muscle Mountain moves again.
"Ok, buddy. I think it's time to take you home. C'mon."
“‘k." Dylan attempts verticality, which is super hard; he used to know how to do this. He’s starting to tilt, timberrrrrrrrrrrrr... When Tyler puts a shoulder under his and an arm around his waist. It’s official, Tyler Heck-hock is the Best. Butt-rest. Ever.
As they're shambling towards the door, Dylan remembers his manners. He should thank everyone for coming out to his bangin’ birthday party and making it awesome. It's only polite.
"Waitwaitwaitwait,” he turns at the door, pulling Tyler around with him. “HEY EVERYBODY! HEYYYY! THIZ' PARTY AWESOME! WOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I’M GOING HOME WITH HECOCK!!! G'NIGHT!!!
~*~
Dylan doesn’t remember much about the cab ride home. There was something hilarious about his seatbelt as Tyler buckled him in, he remembers that. There’s also something blurry but earnest about telling Tyler he's the best butt in the world, but that Dylan would totally butt for him too, anytime he wanted, because they’re buddies and that's only fair.
That part’s a little less distinct.
~*~
Oh god. Let him die. Dylan doesn’t want to live in a world with such things like ‘light’ and ‘sound’. Especially when light is super harsh like the light that’s filtering through his thick bedroom curtains. And sounds are as loud as the ticking of the clock down the hall.
Dylan groans and goes back to sleep. A few hours later he wakes up and tries the whole thing again.
Sitting up slowly—so very, very slowly—he squints one eye open to take inventory. He’s fully dressed in his own bed minus his shoes, and there’s a (thankfully empty) bucket on the floor. He pulls his blanket up with him and shuffles slowly down the hall to the bathroom.
After taking the longest and greatest leak in the history of man--seriously he should have recorded that for Guinness, or maybe not--he brushes his teeth until he gets out all the fur of the rat that obviously died in there. It takes awhile. He’s contemplating a shower when his stomach rumbles in a way that indicates either extreme hunger or extreme sickness. He’s about 74% sure it’s hunger by this point, so he re-gathers the blanket and moves out into the rest of the house.
Bits and pieces are coming back. Laughing as Tyler tried to support him against the door jam with one hand, and digging the keys out of Dylan’s pocket with the other. There’s something else there, but...no, it’s gone.
So there’s maybe a high likelihood of a Hoechlin still lurking around somewhere. Dylan proceeds more cautiously, because he’s pretty sure he can’t deal with that right now.
When he gets to the living room, there’s a blanket folded up on the sofa with a note on top. Dylan picks it up and opens it. The words swim for a moment before reorganizing themselves into Tyler’s familiar messy handwriting.
Your phone’s in the bowl by the door. Had training this afternoon, will check on you this evening; see if you’re up for dinner! Borrowed spare key, now that I know where it lives. :) Happy Birthday!
-Tyler
P.S. DO NOT LOOK AT POSEY’S TWITTER.
Dylan picks up his phone and opens Twitter.
It takes a minute. A lot seems to be birthday congratulations and “OMG’s” from people with names like “sterek5eva” and “Dylansgrrl” but eventually he gets to Posey’s stuff.
And Dylan is in so much trouble.
Because it’s photos.
Apparently sent as they were happening.
From his party.
Posey is such a troll.
Dylan clicks through the photos. They’re all him, in various stages of inebriation. And then he gets to the photos after Hoechlin shows up. Apparently he shared his drink with Hoechlin. A couple times. By feeding him fruit. While basically sitting on his lap. Ah.
Well, this might make things a little awkward. That is, assuming Dylan doesn’t spontaneously combust from shame. It’s about a 50/50 chance at this point.
Posey’s last tweet reads “Byebye birthday birdys!” and has the video of Dylan’s little exit speech. Dylan cringes as his voice yells tinnily over the speakers. He doesn’t remember saying that in exactly those words. And he really doesn’t remember patting Tyler’s arm around his waist the whole time.
Hmm. So apparently, Dylan might be in a little bit of trouble with himself because he swore he would never let this thing he has for Tyler get out of hand, or let anyone know about it ever. There might be some additional things he has to discuss/play off/blatantly lie about/pretend never happened, but right now everything is too bright and too loud and not food, so he goes into kitchen to find something he can keep down.
When he gets there, the coffee machine carafe is already full and there's a bag on the counter from the diner down the street that makes THE BEST hangover food.
And Dylan realizes he is in so much more trouble than he thought.
~*~
Here’s what he doesn’t remember.
“Dylan, where are your keys?”
They’re leaning against the front door of Dylan’s condo as the taxi flashes its lights and drives off into the grey pre-dawn.
“It’s my birthday.” Dylan asserts.
“Yeah, Dyl, I know, happy birthday, now where are your keys?”
“No, birth-day.”Dylan mumbles. “Pocket.” He starts as Tyler reaches into his front pocket.
“Whoa.” There are probably better words for this situation. Like, oh yeah, a little more to the left. But Dylan’s brain is stuck because Tyler’s hand is in his pants. Happy birthday to me.
Tyler reaches around and now his hand is in Dylan’s back pocket, sliding against his ass with just a thin layer of denim in-between. Dylan arches into it, just a little, because a). Lowered inhibitions, and b). How can he not?
“You didn’t even buy me dinner,” Dylan blurts out. Which, oh God, ok that’s hilarious. He’s hilarious.
Tyler huffs and pulls his hand away quickly, “Just phone, no keys.”
And Tyler thought Dylan meant his pocket? He laughs even harder, “I’ll tell you if you give me a birthday present...”
“C’mon man...”
And what the hell, Dylan’s twenty-one, drunk, and invincible.
“I wanna birthday kiss.”
“What?”
Dylan wobbles as Tyler’s grip shifts. Not away, not gone, just shifts. “Gimme a birthday kiss and I’ll tell you the key’s in the garden gnome’s pocket. Wait, no, shit! Forget that!”
Tyler’s face changes from surprised to...something else Dylan might be able to recognize if he had more time, then finally to, oh great. Amusement. He’s amused Tyler. Fart jokes and lolcats amuse Tyler. Dylan had been hoping more for unrestrained lust.
Dylan sighs as Tyler rests him carefully against the front wall and walks down the three steps to get the key out of the secret pocket in the totally ironically-funny garden gnome. Great. His one chance. He’ll never get up the courage again, but it doesn’t matter because now, because he broke his own rules and now Tyler knows Dylan wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t want to kiss Dylan back.
Being twenty-one sucks. At least at twenty, like yesterday, he had some hope.
He pouts as Tyler unlocks the door and leads him inside. He’s moping all the way up the stairs and hey, great, now they’re in his bedroom. He’s got Tyler Hoechlin in his bedroom and it sucks. And not sucks in the fun way like Tyler Hoechlin-in-his-bedroom does in Dylan’s head.
And now Tyler looks worried, which sucks (not fun way) even worse. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Dylan falls back on the bed. “You don’t wanna kiss me.”
Tyler sits down next to Dylan on the bed and scrubs a hand over his face, all smiles from earlier gone. “No, Dylan. You don’t wanna kiss me. You’re just drunk.”
And that’s stupid. Dylan has several well crafted responses that conclusively disprove the truth of that statement.
“Nuh-uh.”
Tyler snorts, “Yuh huh.” He drops his hands, “Just, don’t worry about it ok? Lemme get your shoes off.”
“Noooo!” Dylan kicks his feet. “Birthday kiss!”
“Fine,” sighs Tyler.
He leans over and presses his mouth against Dylan’s softly. And it’s amazing, it’s better than Dylan could ever hope for. Tyler’s lips are soft and he has one warm hand resting on Dylan’s chest. But it’s just for a moment, just the smallest brush of lips and Tyler’s pulling back. And Hell no. This is his twenty-first birthday kiss, more importantly, it’s their first kiss, and Dylan is sure as shit gonna make it count.
He grabs Tyler’s face with both hands, fingertips sliding through soft strands of dark hair, palms scraping against stubble, and pulls him back in for a real kiss. There’s nothing soft or sweet about this, Dylan pours all the months of want and please into it, biting gently against Tyler’s bottom lip, and whining because Tyler’s not responding at all and Dylan’s made a terrible mistake... Until Tyler opens his mouth and presses back, and holy shit.
Tyler tastes like citrus and pineapple and all sorts of delicious, even better things underneath, and he draws Dylan’s tongue into his mouth with his own. Dylan is overcome, trying to taste everything and be everywhere and one of Tyler’s hands is still on his chest and the other is sliding up his side. Tyler’s still wearing his glasses, which is only a major feature in about 64% of Dylan’s fantasies, but it doesn’t really matter because everything is just so intense Dylan has to close his eyes to keep from shattering or flying apart or coming from just a kiss.
Tyler does seem to have lost the hat at some point though. Good.
Finally Tyler pulls back, panting. He rests his head against Dylan’s chest to catch his breath. Dylan thinks breathing is way overrated at a time like this. His fingers are still curled in Tyler’s hair, and he tugs gently to pull him up for more.
“Up, up, up. I know more birthday presents you can give me. Whole list.” Dylan thinks a moment. “Just you though. Other people gimme an iPad. You get special list.”
Tyler laughs and yep. That’s it, that’s the big dorky grin Dylan lo...likes so much. Tyler allows himself to be pulled up, but just drops the tiniest little kiss on the edge of Dylan’s mouth before carefully untangling the fingers in his hair and sitting up.
“You’re super drunk, Dyl. C’mon, now,” he starts tugging at the laces on Dylan’s shoes. “Shoes off. Bedtime.”
“But I wanna.”
Tyler chuckles. “Tell you what, go to sleep. I’ll close up the house. If you remember any of this when you wake up, and you still wanna, I’ll take you out to dinner and we can go from there.”
Dylan settles back into his pillow, he wants to stay awake, but sleep sounds like such a great idea. “Like a date?” he mumbles.
Tyler leans in for another barely-there kiss that Dylan is quickly learning to crave, and pulls the blanket up over Dylan.
“Exactly like a date.”
“‘k,” Dylan nods. “I’ll memember...”
His last thought before drifting off to sleep is Best. Birthday. Ever.