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Out of the four of them, Q is the cutest drunk by miles — in fact, he's probably the cutest drunk in the entire world. This is objective fact, completely free of bias, Sal swears.
Ask Joe. "That fucker already looks like a puppy all the time. Alcohol just makes him that much sweeter — it actually kinda turns my stomach just thinkin' about it."
Murr will chime in. "I'll admit I've wanted to pet his head a time or two."
Q, without fail, will pout and deny everything — which is exactly what signals to Sal that they’re right. No one who actually deserves the title of a cute drunk will fess up to it.
"C'mon, man, help me out here," Q begs one summer night, turning his distraught brown eyes to Sal, rapidly blinking his long eyelashes in a manner that does nothing to help his case. Sal gazes to the heavens for help (the heavens being the none-too-clean ceiling above the bar he's tending — when was the last time they'd replaced the lightbulbs?) and sighs before bestowing a pat on Q's slouching shoulder.
"You're a real piece of fuckin' work. I'll leave it at that," he snorts, before resuming wiping down the counter.
The reality is a lot more complicated than that. Q is an objectively adorable drunk, no doubt about it — but Sal suspects that he’s unlocked some secret understanding of his best friend’s mannerisms, some extra layer that the other guys don’t know about, because whenever Q gets tipsy, Sal’s heart starts pounding a mile a minute, hyperaware of each stage and personality mutation that occurs. Sal loves the face Q makes when Sal mixes him the perfect drink, the delighted crinkle that plays around his eyes as he downs the glass and slams it down approvingly. Sal loves Q’s reaction to a bad drink even better — his nose scrunches up more. It’s cute. Q is always cute, even when he’s not drunk. Sal is merely an observer of his behavior, there to bestow smiles upon his best friend and completely ignore the drop in his stomach whenever he gets close enough that Sal can catch a hint of his shampoo or feel the warmth of his laughter fanning across his cheek, just like he has for years and years and years—
It’s unfathomable bullshit that Sal can’t make heads or tails of. There’s no use dwelling on it tonight, anyway. He’s damn good at wiping down a counter (only when beer spills, Sal! his boss says. His boss doesn’t have the first idea about how quickly germs can spread in a bar), so that’s what he continues to do. It keeps his stupid traitor eyes off Q’s stupid dazzling smile, which is starting to etch itself into his big brown eyes as he grows tipsier and tipsier, suffusing his entire face with warmth—
And there Sal goes again. Santa Maria.
Joe and Murr reach their limit not long into the night, citing busy schedules the next day as their reasons for keeping their intoxication at buzz level. Saying their goodbyes, they fuck off to their respective places, leaving Q and Sal to their own devices.
The bar crowd is a bit sparse for a Friday night, but Sal finds that he’s a bit more on edge than he should be. Perhaps it has something to do with Q’s puppy dog eyes that follow his every miniscule movement as he straightens out rows of bottles between orders, his head dipping every so often to clumsily bring the neck of his IPA to his lips and taking an endearingly uncoordinated sip.
“You ever think ‘bout making your own stuff?” Q asks him, speech slurred. (He’s in his chatty drunk mood for the time being.)
Sal thinks for a second before shaking his head. “Nah. I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”
“But you have, like, the best taste in drinks. You ‘lways know what t’ give me when I come in,” Q argues, gesturing in a way that could faintly be considered ridiculous.
“Starting a brew company is a whole other animal than giving your best friend of God knows how long the same exact drink he’s been ordering for years,” Sal laughs.
Q’s head tilts to the side, his pointer finger raising up in the air. Sal can almost hear the gears in his little head turning. After a moment, his face lights up. It’s so fucking obvious, how he emotes. Sal can see every miniscule gradation of Q’s thought process when he’s drunk like this. Cute.
“Ahhhhhhhh, but is it really? When y’think about it, it’s your job to be everyone’s best friend here,” he exclaims. “So, like — you’ve got practice. ”
“Okay, Socrates, don’t use up all your brainpower on one thought,” Sal laughs, rolling his eyes. “You wanna ‘nother one or what?”
Q nods happily, downing the last few drops in his current drink before resting his head in his hands, beaming at Sal as he smacks a new bottle open against the counter, handing the foaming drink to him.
“Thanks, big guy,” he grins, raising it in a mock toast before tipping it back.
Sal laughs as a large group of giggling girls swirl in the door. “Take it easy. You be good and behave yourself while I take care of these ladies, okay?”
Q agrees in a way Sal can only describe as obedient, eyes huge and soft as he nods rapidly. Sal overpours a handful of drinks during the rush. Naturally, these two things are in no way connected.
After the girls settle into their conversations, Sal spares a minute or two to check on Q, whose gaze is still fixed firmly on Sal. It’s turned sadder, somehow, almost pouty, and Q’s thick brows are furrowed from some unfathomable emotion.
“How are ya, baby boy?” Sal asks, sidling up to him and leaning over the counter to poke at the brim of his newsboy cap.
Q sighs. “Bad.”
“What is it?” Sal can’t help but feel a little concerned despite knowing he’s probably just being dramatic.
“I must be some kind of massive — mass — masochist,” Q attempts.
“Why’s that?”
Having cleared the pronunciation hurdle, Q’s next words are clear and concise. “‘Cause I keep sittin’ here night after fuckin’ night and watching you get hit on."
Sal can’t help the smirk tugging up the corners of his mouth. “And what makes that so bad? I thought you liked watchin’ me make a fool of myself in public?”
Q frowns, distinctively sulky. “Not when girls are flirting with you. ‘S not funny anymore. You don’t even spare me a look.”
Sal really can’t hold back his smile anymore. “I’m lookin’ atcha right now, aren’t I?” Q tilts his head, trying to look unimpressed and aloof. Sal lets out a fond hmmm? and maintains eye contact, partially to fuck with Q and partially to let him know that he really does care (and perhaps a good deal more than he’d care to admit is because it’s nearly impossible to tear his eyes away from Q when he’s like this — lower lip stuck sullenly out and downturned eyes pathetic).
“Yeah,” Q finally admits. “But I’m s’posed to be the one who—”
His sentence trails off as soon as it begun, and he claps a hand over his mouth.
Sal’s eyes widen. “Oh, no you don’t. If you’re gonna throw up, you better do it in the bathroom.”
Q shakes his head insistently. “‘M fine. ‘M fine.”
“Whatever you say,” Sal asks. “But no more drinks for you, mister.”
Q whines a little but doesn’t protest much more than that. That doesn’t mean it’s easy for Sal the rest of the night, though — when Q gets wasted, it takes a long ass time to get through his system, and he’s not a quiet drunk by any stretch of the imagination. It’s all Sal can do to keep him happy and pounding water until closing. His coworkers are all familiar enough with Q taking up space in the corner that they clock out without a question, a few of them even giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder as they leave. And then it’s just Sal and Q and Sal’s intrusive thoughts handling the closing checklist.
Sal’s in the middle of switching on the safety lights when he hears Q call his name from the other side of the bar.
“Salllllvatoooore. Salllll. Vatoreee.”
“What is it, Q’ie?”
Q seems surprised that Sal’s addressing him. “Whaddaya want?”
Sal huffs. He really is a handful. “What do you want? You were just callin’ my name loud as anything!”
Q’s eyebrows raise in epiphany. “Ohhhh, yeah. Just wanted to say it. ‘M okay.”
“Okay my ass,” Sal mumbles under his breath, grabbing his keys before grabbing Q. Q’s unsteady getting up (no surprise), and Sal finds himself marveling at how fucking big Q’s arms are as he holds his friend upright. Don’t think about his firefighter muscles, Salvatore, crucified Christ.
“Let’s get you back to mine, ‘kay?”
Q opens his mouth. Sal rushes to beat him.
“And no, I will not take you out to—”
“—Dinner first. Damn it! You got me.”
“It’s too classic of a line, my friend. Besides, we’ve known each other for almost two decades. I’ve taken you out for plenty dinners.”
Q rolls his head towards Sal as he locks the door, his breath fanning over Sal’s neck. Sal thanks all the saints he doesn’t believe in anymore that Q’s blasted enough to miss the full-body shudder that sparks through him (if only Sal could ignore it, too).
“Not ‘fishally. I’ve been meanin’ to wine ‘n dine you someday. Roses, candles, the whole shebang.” Q’s face is still plastered over with a slippery smile, but his tone of voice is genuine. “Treat you right, like my ma taught me. But it’s s’posed to be a secret, ‘kay?” His index finger makes its way up to clumsily fall against Sal’s lips.
Sal finds himself frozen despite the altogether balmy night air. Q stares dead on at him unblinkingly for a long moment before taking an unsteady step back, giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Holy fuck, look at how big that rat is!” And with that, it’s business as usual. Sal goes through all the motions of dragging Q’s sorry ass back to his apartment, but finds several choice phrases Q’s said in the past few hours are turning his brain into a pinball machine.
Finally, they reach Sal’s door, Sal huffing and puffing a little from the exertion of keeping Q upright through two flights of stairs.
“Hang on a sec,” Q slurs, open palm carving a line through the air to land on Sal’s doorframe.
“What is it?” Sal asks. He hopes to God he’s not about to deal with a Code Kotz.
“I need to — hic — just gimme ‘second.”
“C’mon, bud, we’re right here. Let’s just get inside.”
Q’s adamant, shaking his head side to side. “Nope. Gotta do this before I get in.” Slinging his other arm across Sal’s shoulders for support, he stumblingly toes off his shoes.
Sal rolls his eyes, but can’t hold off the smile that comes over him. “You coulda just done that inside like you usually do,” he chuckles.
“Nah, I have to do it now so I don’t forget later,” Q says. “‘Cause if I made you mad, like really actually mad, I would never forgive myself.” He starts giggling the next moment.
“Sal hates shoe germs ssssso much,” he slurs, the hand on the doorframe finding its way to Sal’s chest quicker than Sal can process, drawing the two of them several inches closer and making it so Q has him in some sort of loose embrace. “I’d take off my socks too for you if you wanted, y’know. Or my hat. Or my shirt. Or a gold chain if I had one. Which I don’t.”
Sal’s heart is about to tear out of his chest and leave his wits far, far behind. With a breath that’s far shakier than he’d like to admit, he chucks the edge of Q’s newsboy cap with his finger.
“Nah, you keep the hat. I know how much you love that thing,” he whispers. (Since when has he started whispering? Was it this warm out two minutes ago? Who the hell is making his hand hesitant to leave Q’s personal space, fingers drifting down to his cheek where hints of stubble prickle against his touch?)
“I do love it,” Q replies, big brown eyes never leaving Sal’s. Sal gets a feeling like he’s just said the sunset is beautiful and his best friend of fucking years has agreed without looking even once.
His fingers are still on Q’s soft goddamn cheek, fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s fallen at the corner of his mouth. Q’s hair is damp from the midnight humidity, long soft waves curling just right against his neck and browbone where his light sweat is most prominent. His dark eyelashes are so long that the strands falling into his eyes sweep aside with every minute movement of his gaze — and Sal does what anyone would do, which is gently tuck a chocolate wave or two back behind his friend’s ear, just to make sure they don’t irritate his eyes.
And then he does what only stupid, stupid Sal would — he rounds out the gesture with a soft tilt of his wrist, cupping Q’s beautiful drunk face with a touch so delicate even he’s surprised.
Q’s eyes go wide for a moment before lidding over, lashes lowering as he nuzzles into Sal’s hand. He opens them halfway after a long, breathless moment, and Sal’s sanity is toast. Sparkly and gentle, framed by Q’s soft dark waves, their downturned tilt is ineffably sweet. The sight in front of Sal is the very picture of loving devotion, and it scrambles his brain so completely that he doesn’t know how to react, what to say, what to do other than just stand there and take in the view.
Q lets out a hum, half-contented, half-expectant. “I love ya, you know that?” he murmurs, head still puppy-tilted into Sal’s palm. Sal forgets how to swallow, how to breathe, how to do anything but look.
Q sighs, a small smile easing over his flushed face, long lashes growing heavy as a rush of tiredness seems to wash over him. “You don’t have to love me back. I just wanted you to know.”
Sal blinks back what are most certainly not tears. “I—” he starts.
Q lifts his gaze again, pretty eyes sparkling as they catch Sal’s porchlight. His smile widens as they gaze at each other, a hint of straight white teeth flashing through, and the sight sends a surge of confidence through Sal.
“I love you too,” he finishes, an incredulous laugh escaping him after he finally, finally says it out loud. He can’t help but tack on a dummy at the euphoric look on Q’s face, tilted up in almost childlike wonder.
“Really?!” Q breathes out.
“Yeah.”
Q leans in impossibly closer, entwining his fingers around Sal’s. “I’m so — hic — glad.”
Sal snorts at the sound. “I’m not kissing you when you’re all sweaty.”
Q groans, but stays motionlessly staring at Sal. “I know.”
“Meaning either clean up now or wait until morning.”
And Q means to stay awake, he really, really does. He wants that kiss — more than he’s ever wanted anything. But after Sal’s helped him inside and given him an old hoodie and pair of sweatpants, the couch is just too comfortable and the Sal-smell all-encompassing that he drifts off almost without knowing it.
Sal is many things, but he’s never cruel. In addition to setting out water and painkillers and smoothing his grandmother’s blanket over Q’s shoulders, he bestows a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth (just to watch his lips twitch subconsciously into a smile) and to the cozy curve of his drunk little forehead (to better help the sweet dreams find their way).