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It wasn't his usual scene. Bars were too crowded, too loud, and were always full of men who thought they could take him in a fight when they got drunk enough (David had yet to meet one who could). But Christmas was soon, and his boss was paying, and one of his coworker's had just learned that his wife was pregnant with their first child, and so he thought that it would be polite to go and have a few drinks with his crewmates.
Diarmuid thought so too. "A boys' night out," he said, smiling, as they folded the laundry. "That'll be fun. Let your hair down, cut loose a bit."
Any rare desire that David might've had to 'cut loose' in a public space had been beaten out of him in the military. People still sometimes asked him if he'd served, citing the way he held himself—stiff and formal even when he was in his sweats at the grocery store. At least people couldn't peg him as a servicemember by his hair anymore. As soon as he was discharged he'd started growing it out. The beard, too. Diarmuid occasionally referred to him as a "handsome, ravishing mountain man," which was not a descriptor that David had ever thought would ever apply to him nor one that he would ever find arousing when whispered in his ear, but there had been many changes to his life since Diarmuid had entered it.
He replied, carefully folding Diarmuid's work slacks so they wouldn't get wrinkled, "Yeah, maybe." He set the slacks on the edge of the bed.
His boyfriend noticed his lack of enthusiasm. "Do you not want to go?"
David considered his answer. "Not really," he said. "It's more like I feel like I should go, because, you know. It's almost Christmas. Got to be social. And Matt's wife is having a kid and all."
"It'd be a faux-pas not to go."
"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "But, when I get there and have a drink, it'll probably be fine. I'm just. Stressing, you know. Like I always do."
Diarmuid, who was a bit more lackadaisical in the task of laundry folding, was relegated to sitting crossed-legged on the bed, balling socks up into little balls and throwing them into the open drawer. He was well-practiced in missing. He drew his arm back and with a quick snap of his wrist hurled the sock ball against the wall. It gave a thump and bounced to the floor.
"Can't make them all," Diarmuid said with a smile and a shrug. He walked on his knees to David's side and pressed his palm to David's forehead, smoothing out his furrowed brow. "You wouldn't be David if you didn't worry. But here's my idea. You go to the bar with your coworkers and see how you feel. If you don't feel right, call me and I'll come pick you up. If you feel okay, then have a few drinks. And if you feel like you've reached your limit after that, then call me then. If not—"
"Then have a couple more shots and get shit-faced?" David asked. He pulled Diarmuid into his lap. "I'll try it. I'm coming home to you whatever happens."
What happened was David got drunk.
He hadn’t meant to. All he’d ordered was a few beers. It wasn’t the best tasting stuff, but it was free, so that made it pretty good. Then they’d done a round of shots to celebrate Matt’s baby. And then another round when another table full of happy drunken people also wanted to chip in to celebrate Matt’s baby—nice of them. But whatever the bartender had poured in those glasses tasted like it was going to dissolve part of his stomach lining. Somewhere between the stumbling journey back from the bathroom to the barstool David realized he’d made a huge mistake.
Collapsing onto the barstool, David clutched his head and groaned and tried to will the room to stop spinning. Fuck, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He’d done a lot of drinking when he was in the corps. And then, after too many disjointed evenings and broken noses and dressing downs from his superiors he’d decided to un-fuck himself and his life and he’d taken bars off his nightly itinerary.
Even when he and Diarmuid had a night out, they usually shared a beer or two or got a glass or wine each. How long had it been since he’d actually sat down with the intention to just drink? A decade? More? Numbers weren’t quite adding up in David’s head. He decided too fucking many and dug his wallet out of his pocket, fumbling for a tip for the bartender.
“Could I get a glass of water?” David asked him. “Got to—moist. Fuck, hydration—hydrate, I mean. Sorry for cussing.”
The bartender brought him a glass. It was cold, which was nice. David pressed it to his forehead before draining it. Jesus—water, the staff of life.
Or was that bread? He’d have to ask Diarmuid what the right idiom was. Idiom? Colloquialism. Turn of phrase.
Frowning, he stuck his hand in the pocket of his jeans again for his cellphone before remembering he’d put it in his jacket. He let out a cry of triumph as he called Diarmuid’s number.
“Hello, handsome,” Diarmuid said. “What’s up?”
God, he had such a beautiful voice. Like an angel, or even better, probably. They had four faces, some of them. David bet Diarmuid would put each one of them to shame. All of them, with all their faces. Four2 or some shit.
Diarmuid asked, “David? Are you there?”
He’d had a question to ask but couldn’t quite recall what it had been. He tried, “Bread.”
“What?”
Fuck, that hadn’t been it. David took a deep breath. “Diarmuid,” he said.
“David,” Diarmuid said.
“I’m drunk, baby. Can you come pick me up, please?”
“I can and I will. I’ll leave in a few minutes.”
There wasn’t anyone as sweet as Diarmuid. David didn’t deserve him. He was too good. Just, everything that was great and good and wonderful in the world. “I’m sorry.” David’s voice wavered.
“What are you sorry for?” When David started to sniffle Diarmuid said, “It’s okay! Don’t cry, David. I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.”
David wiped his eyes. “I’m drunk, though. You got to come all this way just to get me because I can’t hold my alcohol.” God, he was such an asshole. A sorry excuse for a boyfriend.
“No, darling,” Diarmuid cooed. “Remember? I was going to drive you back home either way. It’s fine. Please, don’t be upset. Just stay there, maybe get a drink of water—”
“I had a glass of water already,” David said, pleased at his forethought.
“Good. I love you. I’ll be right over.”
“Okay. I love you too. I love you a lot. So, so much.” David pressed his fingers to his lips and made a few kissing noises to make sure that Diarmuid really got the message. Some of the other patrons in the bar snickered into their drinks. He growled, “The fuck you stupid assholes looking at?” and to his surprise they immediately quieted.
David waited, patiently, for Diarmuid to arrive. He sat at the bar with his hands placed in his lap, like a schoolboy waiting for class to start. To the bartender he said, “My boyfriend’s coming to pick me up,” and he could not hide his excitement. He hadn’t seen Diarmuid since that morning when he’d dropped David off at the construction site.
“Oh, yeah?” the bartender replied as he wiped the bar with a damp cloth.
“Yeah. He’s so—he’s so great. Just the best. I’ve never met anyone like him.”
“He sounds nice.”
David got the feeling that the bartender really wasn’t getting just how nice Diarmuid was. That was all right, though, because David was there to elucidate him. Illuminate? Fuck it, he could do both. He fished an ice cube out of his empty glass of water, chewed it, swallowed it, and began, “So, we met in the laundry room at our old apartment building—”
He was so focused on making sure everyone knew how he and Diarmuid had fallen in love that David missed the moment when Diarmuid actually walked into the bar. He didn’t notice until a familiar hand settled comfortably on his shoulder as he regaled everyone with the adventures of their last camping trip. They’d made banana boats. They’d stargazed. They’d gone skinny-dipping—but David kept that memory to himself.
“David,” Diarmuid said.
David whirled around on his barstool. There was his better-than-an-angel, wearing a puffy coat with a wool scarf around his neck and a cute little beanie hat with a few stray curls poking out from under it. David stood—too fast, as the bar started spinning again—and hugged him. “Diarmuid, sweetheart—you’re here!”
“I’m here.”
“Ah, you’re Diarmuid,” said the bartender. “Your boyfriend’s been telling us all about you.”
David grinned. “See? See? Didn’t I tell you. Fucking beautiful. Just absolutely gorgeous.”
The bartender intoned, “Yes, very nice eyelashes. Just like you said. And kept saying.”
“Oh, David.” Diarmuid patted his chest. “How are you feeling?”
David thought this would be an extremely good time to give Diarmuid a kiss on the lips, but as he leaned down he swayed slightly and missed and got his cheek instead. “Hey,” he said. He tried to make it sound sensual but it ended up more slurred.
Diarmuid said, “Mm, I see. All right, darling. Let’s get you home and into bed.”
Bed? Fuck yeah. David wrapped as arm around Diarmuid’s waist. He called to his coworkers, “Merry Christmas. Happy holidays. Matt, congrats on getting your wife pregnant and all. Good—good swimmers.”
Matt looked touched. “Thank you, David.”
“All right, mister,” Diarmuid said, “Let’s get to the car.”
The ride home was pleasant. Being with Diarmuid was pleasant, and so being driven home by Diarmuid was itself a pleasant occurrence, even if David did feel a bit nauseous and was fighting falling asleep with his forehead resting against the window.
Diarmuid held his hand as they walked through the lobby and to the elevator and through the elevator ride to their floor and all the way to their apartment, and by then David had remembered bed and was in an even better mood and valiantly fighting sleep in expectation for the great sex they were no doubt about to have.
He got into bed. Or, to be more accurate, Diarmuid helped him into bed and David flopped backward onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. He felt Diarmuid tugging off his boots, heard them hit the floor, then felt him fiddling with his belt buckle.
“Fuck, honey,” David said, “You going to have your way with me?”
Though his vision was slightly blurred, Diarmuid looked to be smiling down at him with an expression that was half-amused and half-fond. “Oh, David.”
“I'm all yours. Do whatever you want.”
“I assure you, I am.” Diarmuid kissed his cheek.
David grinned and squeezed his ass. Or tried to. His arm moved too slowly and he ended up pawing at the air. “Shit—”
Diarmuid pulled the covers around him. “What I want is for you to get a good night’s sleep. You’re not exactly shit-faced, David, but you have had too much to drink. Get some rest. I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”
“I love you,” David said. The battle against sleep was a loss. The bed was too comfortable, the pillows too soft, the blankets too warm. And Diarmuid was there, gently stroking his hair and humming. “I really, really love you.”
“And I love you, David,” was what he heard before he finally fell asleep.
It wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had, but it was the first he’d had in a while. David blinked, squinted at the sunlight creeping in through the windows with suspicion and betrayal, groaned, and reached for Diarmuid. His fingers found cold sheets instead. “Baby?”
“Kitchen!” Diarmuid called.
He trudged to the kitchen. There were scrambled eggs in the frying pan and two glasses of orange juice on the table alongside a stack of pancakes. He walked right behind Diarmuid and wrapped his arms around him. “Good morning.”
“Is it? How are you feeling?”
“Been better,” David said, honestly. “But not too bad.”
Diarmuid turned his head to give him a quick peck. “Good. Go ahead and eat. The eggs are almost done.”
Shit, didn’t have to tell him twice. David grabbed a pancake, rolled into up, dipped it into the orange juice, and shoved it into his mouth.
“You’re recovering from the effects of a night out, so I’m going to ignore that food crime I just witnessed.”
“Aiding and abetting,” David mumbled around a mouthful of pancake.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
David said, “I am.”
Diarmuid smiled and hummed and continued cooking the eggs, and David made Diarmuid a plate of pancakes with a stack of three pancakes each with its own layer of syrup, super sticky and far too sweet but just how Diarmuid liked it.
“Let’s go back to bed after we eat,” David offered as Diarmuid spooned scrambled eggs onto their plates. “Just hibernate for a while.”
“No funny business?”
“Nothing but snoring and drool, I promise.”
“Oh, well, I guess that’s fine then.” Diarmuid popped a forkful of syrup-soaked pancake into his mouth and then snorted with laughter and nearly sprayed the table with flecks of crumbs as he did so and David thought, ever love-drunk, that he really was just the most gorgeous, most wonderful person, and he was the luckiest man alive.