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“(Name), we both know he’s an asshole.”
Your friend (unsuccessfully) tries to comfort you. It’s not an easy task; you can’t make up your mind on how you feel about the subject on any give day, and so their efforts are usually in vain.
You sigh. You know he’s an asshole. Everyone knows he’s an asshole. But that doesn’t make it any easier. He’s usually…not sober, to say the least, buzzing around, smuggling cigarettes or weed from the pockets of unsuspecting smokers and then asking those same smokers for a light. Leech.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. You head upstairs, the beat of the music thrumming in time with your heartbeat, and quickly, quickly, lose yourself in the crowds of the club.
The worry deep in your stomach is nothing compared to the adrenaline pulsing in your veins. You’re tossed around, guitar and drums and arms and elbows all in your face, in your shoulders. You love it. You always have.
At least, for a couple of hours. Then, somehow, the dehydration and painful stitch break through your excitement, and you stumble outside, laughing, breathless.
You lean against a wall, look around, and…shit. There he is.
“…hey…” He says it sheepishly, hand cartoonishly against the back of his neck, the other behind his back. Huh.
“Been a long time, Peter.” You drag out the syllables of his name, relishing his discomfort. “Remember my name yet?”
He winces. You knew it. “I- listen, I got this as an apology, okay?”
The hand behind his back reveals…no way. “A vodka cranberry?”
“You’ve ordered it before…so…” You have. You’d tried it a couple of weeks ago, on the recommendation of a friend. Not your favourite, but…
“…how did you notice my order, but not my name?!”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry…” He leans against the wall, with yet another stolen cigarette. “You’ve probably had guys buying you drinks all night, anyway.”
Your protests fall on deaf ears. Peter continues. “No, really. They’re probably falling over their feet, lining up out the door, begging you to be their valentine's sweetheart-” He’s laughing now, a tinge of humour in his tone. But that doubt still lingers.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you- or the way he doesn’t. The way he glances instead of talking to you, focusing those dark eyes across the street instead. But the question slips from your mouth before you can hesitate.
“Why?” He glances at you again, in mild surprise, repeating your question. He’s clearly confused. “Why…are you such an asshole? To me in particular?”
He hesitates, that grin slipping for just a moment, dusting a hand on his jeans, before raking that same hand through his silver hair. Another beat passes before he speaks.
“…long or short answer?”
You respond automatically. “Both.”
A short, soft laugh. Like he knew you would say that. “Short answer….insecurity.”
It’s your turn to laugh. “It always is.”
“Long answer…I….man. I wasn’t the coolest in middle school.” You bite back the urge to make a joke about how he isn’t the coolest *now*. That’d be mean. His voice is soft, confessional, as he continues. “I was…sort of weird. Stereotypical weird kid. These…god, these popular kids…they were ruthless. Anything, anything I did, anything I liked…”
He shakes his head. You’re not getting details, his pride won’t allow it. “Anyway. They picked on me. So now…I don’t talk to people like you.”
The accusation, almost, the label, catches you off guard, and you choke on your drink. “You- what?!”
Peter looks at you, properly, for the first time. Like it’s obvious. “You- people like you. You’re cool, and funny, and you know so many people…I mean, look at you.” He’s frowning, like you might be a little stupid. “You’re…pretty. I don’t talk to pretty people.”
You don’t mean to laugh at him. You really don’t. But the chuckle slips from your lips before you can stop it, yet again. Man, you need to be more sober.
“You…wow. I didn’t- I wouldn’t make fun of you. I like this shit too.” You say, flicking the collar of his jacket, where a ‘The Who’ patch sits. “I don’t…you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry, man.”
You look up again, catching his gaze. He looks at you with an expression you can’t place, somewhere between melancholy and confusion.
“Yeah, okay-“
“What’s up guys!?” The over-zealous, excitable tone appears out of the blue. Peter rolls his eyes, as you laugh, taking Kurt’s outstretched hand in a high-five. He appears to...realise he’s walked in on something, and steps back, guilt crossing his face.
“Oh- should I go…?”
“No!” You say, just as Peter says “Yes.”, his tone sterner than you’ve heard it. Kurt simply throws an arm around your shoulder, grinning at his friend. “See, I like them. (Name) might be cooler than you, Peter.”
You grin, almost laughing, as the recognition sparks on Peter’s face. There you go. He mutters your name, maybe, perhaps, finally committing it to memory.
Kurt shakes you, arm still wrapped around you. “I think he owes us another drink, yes?”