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Danny had never been drunk before.
Not really, anyway. He’d had a beer once (hated it), taken a sip of one of Tucker’s questionable mixed drinks (also hated it), and had definitely inhaled something ectoplasmic once that made him floatier than usual (jury was still out on that one).
But this? This was different.
Manny, with a smug grin and a twinkle of mischief in his brown eyes, had pulled a bottle of tequila out of his bag like it was the best thing he’d ever stolen.
Danny had eyed it warily. "That is a lot of alcohol."
"Sí, and?" Manny grinned, shaking the bottle teasingly. "Come on, give me fun Danny."
Danny huffed, arms crossed. "My parents are out of town. Jazz is gone. If they find out I got drunk, I’m dead."
Manny wiggled his eyebrows. "We’re already breaking rules, eh, Phantom? What’s a little alcohol?"
Danny had no real counter-argument, so, with a dramatic sigh, he let Manny pour them each a shot. One turned into two. Two turned into three. And then—
Well.
Now they were sprawled across the couch in Danny’s dimly lit living room, tequila bottle a little more than half-empty between them, warm and loose-limbed from the alcohol.
Danny was giggling. Actually giggling.
Manny, tipsy but still cocky as ever, threw an arm around Danny’s shoulders, his body very much leaning into Danny’s personal space. "You—" he pointed a lazy finger, "are a very, very bad influence, mi amor."
Danny snorted. "Me?" He flopped sideways, letting his head rest against Manny’s shoulder. "You’re the one who smuggled tequila across the border."
"Pfft. Details."
They sat in comfortable silence, tangled together on the couch, both of them excessively touchy in their drunken state. Manny’s fingers idly toyed with the drawstring of Danny’s hoodie, while Danny absently traced patterns over Manny’s arm, his touch light, almost absentminded.
Then Danny blinked as something caught his attention.
His fingers stilled as they brushed over a scar over Manny’s left eye—the one that slashed through his eyebrow, slightly jagged, like a wound that had been deep at one point. Danny had always wanted to ask about it.
So, with all the grace of a drunk man on a mission, he poked it. "How’d you get this?"
Manny blinked, looking flustered as he immediately failed to meet Danny’s gaze. "Uh…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I actually gave that one to myself."
Danny’s drunken brain latched onto that immediately. "Really?!" He leaned in, his eyes wide, very interested now.
Manny groaned, clearly debating if he should even answer. But Danny was looking at him like he’d just asked for the world’s greatest story, so with a deep sigh, Manny caved.
"Yeah," he muttered. "It was the first time I used the belt." He waved a vague hand. "Sliced my own eye real good. Papá used it as a ‘life lesson’ opportunity—" he made huge air quotes, "—but we didn’t realize ‘til way later that I lost most of my vision because of it."
Danny squinted. "Wait. You can still see when you use your powers, though, right?"
Manny nodded, relaxing slightly. "Sí. For some reason, when my eyes glow with the ancient tiger spirit or whatever, I can see perfectly fine."
Danny, still very much drunk, blinked slowly. "Wild."
Then his eyes shifted to another scar—one wrapped around Manny’s wrists, jagged and slightly raised, like something had cut deep and healed badly.
Danny didn’t even think before asking. "What’re these from?" His words were slurred but still heavy with curiosity.
Manny flushed instantly. "Oh. Uh…" He shifted, clearly debating how much to say before sighing. "I got those the first time someone cut off my grappling chains."
Danny frowned. "…What?"
"Apparently," Manny continued, "that counts as cutting my hands off."
Danny startled, sitting up a bit straighter. "You’re kidding!"
Manny snorted. "I wish." He flexed his fingers slightly, tilting his wrist as he examined the scar. "It hurts like a motherfucker."
Danny stared at the mark, his drunken mind running a bit slower but very determined about one thing.
So, without thinking, he grabbed Manny’s wrist, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed the scar.
It was a little clumsy, a little off-center, but very deliberate. Then Danny looked up, grinning. "There! Now it shouldn’t hurt!"
Manny froze. His brain shut down completely.
His hand immediately went to cover his face, but Danny still saw it—the deep, undeniable blush spreading across Manny’s cheeks.
Danny’s brain, now thoroughly drunk and invincible, took that reaction as encouragement.
With a slightly mischievous smirk, he grabbed Manny’s other wrist and did the same thing—another gentle, slightly off-balance kiss pressed against the scar. This time, he met Manny’s eyes while he did it.
"Díos mío," Manny barely managed, voice dangerously close to a squeak.
Danny beamed, very pleased with himself. "Tigre down?"
Manny made a wounded noise and flopped backward onto the couch, dramatically covering his face with both arms. "Ay, mi corazón, you are going to be the death of me."
Danny giggled, absolutely delighted. "Guess I better kiss all your scars then."
Manny groaned, his whole body going boneless from sheer overload. "You’re going to kill me. You’re actually going to kill me."
Danny, still drunk, leaned over him, grinning like a menace. "Better drink more so you don’t remember in the morning."
Manny, very much losing his mind, just groaned again and buried his face in a couch pillow.
Danny laughed and he spent the last several minutes draped over Manny with the grace of a drunk teenager, kissing every scar he could reach—big and small.
Manny, meanwhile, lay beneath him, eyes wide, looking like he was about two seconds from spontaneously combusting.
Danny, for his part, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Then, suddenly, a thought hit him. He sat back onto his heels so fast that Manny visibly inhaled like he could finally breathe.
Manny started to sit up, still looking very flustered, but before he could regain any sense of control, Danny reached for the hem of his hoodie.
"¡Aye!" Manny yelped, immediately panicking. "We’re both drunk! Don’t start getting naked!"
Danny scrunched his eyebrows, already halfway out of his hoodie. "I’m not?"
And then, with all the confidence of someone who had absolutely zero shame in his current state, Danny tossed his hoodie and t-shirt aside.
Manny made a noise somewhere between a dying cat and a strangled bird. "¡Aye, carajo! Danny! What the fuck?!"
Danny just grinned, voice slurred but full of amusement. "You showed me yours, I show you mine?"
Manny, wildly flustered, scrambled to catch up. "What are you talking about, idiota?!"
Danny let out a giggle—an actual, adorable, drunken giggle—and grabbed Manny’s wrists, pulling him close. "See?"
And then he guided Manny’s hand to his left side.
Manny blinked, his tequila-addled brain trying to process—And then he saw them.
His breath hitched.
Trailing up Danny’s left arm, spanning across his chest and stopping just at his collarbone, were the faintly glowing green marks—jagged, branching, unmistakable.
"Díos mío," Manny gasped, his hands moving before he even thought about it, fingertips tracing along the uneven lines, soft, reverent. "What…?"
Danny’s breath stuttered in his chest at the touch, but he managed to murmur, "Lichtenberg scars. Got ‘em when the portal activated with me in it."
Manny’s hands stilled for a second, his wide, golden eyes locking onto Danny’s face. "…Wait." His voice dropped. "You mean—"
Danny nodded. "It’s technically my death mark."
Manny’s expression cracked into something shocked and distraught. "Death mark?"
Danny exhaled, buzzed but still steady. "Yeah." He shrugged. "There’s only one way to become a ghost, Manny."
Manny stared, jaw slightly slack.
Danny continued, "But the portal also brought me back. I’m only half dead? That’s why the scar kinda… glows."
Manny’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. His brain had completely stopped functioning. "¿Qúe carajo," he whispered.
And then, before Danny could react, Manny leaned forward.
Danny barely had time to register what was happening before Manny was in his lap, head tilted downward as his lips gently pressed against the center of Danny’s chest, right over the faint, glowing scars.
Danny gasped.
Heat flooded his face, his entire body tensing. "H-Hey!"
Manny, completely unbothered, just shrugged against him. "You did it to me."
Danny opened his mouth, fully intending to argue—And then Manny grabbed his left wrist, bringing it up between them, and started kissing his way down the length of the scar.
Danny completely forgot what he was going to say.
Manny's lips brushed every jagged turn in the scar, trailing from Danny’s collarbone to his shoulder, then slowly down his arm, each press of warmth making Danny’s breath stutter.
Danny swallowed, voice shaky. "Manny…"
"Shh," Manny murmured, voice softer, deeper.
Danny shivered.
Manny kissed the inside of his wrist, lingering there for a moment before finally pulling back—just enough to look at him, eyes hazy but warm. "You’re incredible, mi amor."
Danny, drunk and overwhelmed, just let out a breathy laugh, his entire face burning. "I'm never drinking with you again."
Manny grinned—a little too pleased with himself—before flopping back onto the couch, dragging Danny down with him.
Danny landed half on top of him, groaning. "This is your fault."
"And?"
Danny huffed but didn’t move. "You’re ridiculous."
"Sí."
They stayed like that, tangled together, warmth buzzing between them, the taste of tequila on their lips and the weight of each other’s hands on old scars.
And if they woke up the next morning horribly hungover and very much still wrapped around each other—
Well.
Danny wasn’t complaining.