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“I don’t know how you can drink this shit.”
Pete scrunches up his nose as the whiskey burns its way down his throat, leaving a nasty aftertaste in his mouth and causing him to cough. The disapproving look he gets from Tom is almost enough to make him take back the words.
Almost.
It’s common knowledge that Tom Kazansky loves his whiskey nearly as much as he loves flying. Whenever the occasion calls for a drink, Tom will, more often than not, opt for the liquid gold over any cheaper alternatives with lower alcohol content. Pete knows that by expressing his unfavourable opinion about Tom’s choice of poison, he’s risking being unceremoniously kicked out of the apartment and stripped of all the friendship privileges previously granted to him. Fortunately, what happens next isn’t nearly as dramatic.
Tom hands him a different glass, taking away the one Pete has been holding.
“Try this one,” he encourages.
The liquid looks identical to what Pete has just tasted and smells just as foul, which does little to incite Pete to follow the instruction. He’d much rather return to sipping his cold beer, but this is supposed to be a bonding experience between him and Tom, and it’s that fact alone that keeps him from cringing at the mere thought of having to taste whiskey once again.
Tom’s excitement is endearing, and Pete refuses to take his eyes off his face as he takes another sip and swallows. Immediately, the pungency of the alcohol sends a cold shiver down his spine. He does his best to resist the urge to cough but his efforts are in vain and eventually, he has to turn away to clear his throat. He realises in that moment that despite his most sincere desires, Tom likely stands no chance of fixing Pete’s aversion to whiskey.
“It’s bitter,” Pete doubles down, although it almost pains him to stand in opposition to Tom. He has no clue how anyone can tolerate the heavy taste of the liquor, let alone enjoy it as much as Tom does. In Pete’s eyes, it’s even worse than vodka, and vodka is an abomination in its own right.
Tom’s smile slowly disappears, and he looks at Pete with what can only be interpreted as fond disappointment, as if Pete is a child who has no capacity to understand whatever it is that makes Tom love whiskey. Pete opens his mouth to speak again, but Tom cuts him off before he can embarrass himself even more.
“It’s earthy,” he corrects. It sounds stupid, and Pete doesn’t know what it’s even supposed to mean.
“You mean it tastes like dirt? It kind of tastes like dirt.”
“It doesn’t…” Tom immediately protests. He runs his fingers through his hair in an obvious expression of frustration. “It doesn’t taste like dirt. It’s just…”
“Bitter,” Pete cuts in with a satisfied smirk.
Tom sighs.
“Fine, yeah, it’s bitter,” Tom finally admits, giving Pete an unhealthy amount of satisfaction. Being right almost makes the whiskey taste better.
Delighted, Pete takes another sip of his drink, as if to test the effects of Tom’s admission. Obviously, it makes no difference. The whiskey is still as bitter and disgusting as it’s always been. This time, Pete manages to limit his reaction to scrunching up his nose in displeasure, as he puts his glass away on the coffee table.
“You’re not gonna convince me, Tommy,” Pete sighs almost apologetically.
The look on Tom’s face is indecipherable. He stays quiet for a few seconds, looking directly at Pete as if trying to uncover a mystery of his own. Pete wants to reach out and touch him, run his fingers over the perfect skin and smooth out the tiny wrinkle between his blonde eyebrows. He’s hopeless and weak, but he doesn’t believe anyone would be strong enough to resist Tom’s charms.
“I could make it sweeter for you,” Tom offers, finally breaking the silence. It feels like waking up from a dream. Pete chuckles.
“You’re gonna mix it with coke?” he asks, watching Tom as he gets off the couch and walks away with Pete’s glass in his hand.
“That would make it a cocktail, and not even a good one,” Tom argues. Pete can hear a note of playfulness in his voice. He keeps himself from following Tom like a lost puppy, the way he almost always does these days. He can be patient for once and give Tom a small victory to sweeten this sour defeat.
Tom rarely resorts to mischief, and it makes Pete wonder what he should expect. He’d never anticipate true malice from Tom, especially not in a situation like this, and this absolute knowledge that Tom would never hurt him only fuels Pete’s curiosity about the outcome. He stays still, seated on the couch, waiting.
Tom returns after being gone for seemingly way more time than is required to fix up a drink. That, and the whiskey in the glass he’s holding looks exactly like it did before, making Pete suspect that Tom has genuinely put a spoonful of sugar in the liquor, expecting Pete to like it more this way.
Pete keeps himself from laughing and mocking Tom for his assumption. Tom hands him the glass, and Pete accepts it, keeping his eyes on Tom’s face the whole time, searching for any clues as to what is really going on. Tom just offers him a polite smile as he sits down again.
Pete brings the glass up to inspect his drink - it still smells putrid to him, making his gut churn. Whatever magic Tom has performed to make the whiskey drinkable is not immediately noticeable. Pete glances at him.
“I need you to close your eyes before you try it again,” Tom instructs. Pete doesn’t immediately comply. “Just trust me. Don’t open them until I tell you to, okay? Please.”
Damn it.
Maybe they’ve become too comfortable with each other. These days, Tom is the only person in the world whose authority Pete is willing to respect, and Tom has long ago realised how to weaponise this weakness of his. All he needs to do is say please and look at Pete with what can only be described as Tom’s unique brand of affection, and Pete is his to command. Trust is not an issue between them.
Pete closes his eyes and takes a sip. Nothing is different - the alcohol burns his throat and makes him want to gag the same way it did every time he tried it. He shows his disappointment through a resigned sigh, ready to open his eyes before he’s given permission to do so because he’s unsure what else there is for him to expect.
“It’s still bit…”
Soft, warm lips cover his own before he can finish speaking, catching him off guard. A surprise kiss has never even made it onto Pete’s list of things he could ever expect from Tom. It’s shocking; so much so that it makes him drop the glass from where it rests against his knee. It falls to the floor with an audible and loud clink, but neither of them pays attention to it. Even when Pete feels the wetness of the spilt liquor on his foot, he doesn’t move, and Tom appears to be entirely absorbed by the task on hand - gently prying Pete’s lips apart with his tongue. Pete doesn’t resist. When Tom’s hand comes to cup the back of his head, he finally snaps out of his startled stupor and leans into the act, eager to take exactly what Tom is giving and return it twofold.
He curls his fingers into the front of Tom’s shirt just as Tom pulls away. Pete still refuses to open his eyes, but he can hear Tom’s quiet breathing. They stay like this for a while - silent and holding onto each other. It gives Pete just enough time to process the events that have transpired. Tom kissed him, as evidenced by the fingers still tangled in the hair at the base of his skull and the tingling of his lips.
Pete slowly opens his eyes. Tom’s handsome face is closer than he was expecting it, so he looks away and catches a glimpse of the thankfully unbroken glass on the floor.
“I’m sorry…” he starts.
Tom pulls at his hair to get him to look up again.
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t care. How was the whiskey?” Tom asks. Pete can see the hope and joy etched into his features.
“Bit…”
The second kiss is nearly as unexpected as the first one. Pete knows he should have known better than to expect a different reaction. Tom may well be allergic to the way Pete has been describing his experience. He decides he doesn’t mind.
“Nothing? Not even a tiny bit better?” Tom asks when they part, and Pete can hear the anxiety in his voice.
He takes a few seconds, pretending that he’s mulling over his answer, even though he already knows what he wants to say. Finally, he smiles.
“I think I can be convinced to take my whiskey this way.”