Work Text:
When your phone lights up with Emre’s name and a picture of the two of you, arms locked around each other like a couple on their wedding day eating their cake, the difference being that you and Emre are throwing back shots, your body surges with electricity.
“Emre!” you exclaim into the microphone. He responds with a smooth chuckle.
“Drinks tonight?”
“Yessir.”
“Alright. See you at 7?”
“Yessir.”
It is currently 2 PM, and you can think of no other thing to do than to nap the afternoon away, if only so that you might see Emre sooner. You set your alarm for 6 PM, and slumber deeply. When you wake from your sleep, you take a cold, five minute shower, brush your teeth vigorously, and dress yourself in your favorite outfit to wear for a night of drinking.
You step out into the cool, evening air, shutting and locking the door behind you. You see Emre striding down the sidewalk, and he flashes you a grin when you raise your arm and wave at him wildly. Emre scoops you into a bear hug, an expensive-smelling cologne wafting from his neck. He presses his cheek to yours briefly.
“Someone’s excited,” Emre comments as the two of you start down the sidewalk. The bar is a fifteen minute stroll through the city.
“Well, I missed you,” you reply with a thoughtful look, as if this should be obvious.
“It’s been a week.” Emre laughs, his cheeks dusted by a light pink that you seem to miss.
“It could be a day and I’d still miss you.” You pat your pockets to feel for your belongings. Phone. Keys. Wallet. That’s all you’ll be needing. “Is it so wrong to miss a friend?”
Emre contorts his mouth as if he’s conceding. “No, I guess not.”
“Well, you’re always saying stuff like this as if I shouldn’t be excited to see my good friend Emre.”
Emre doesn’t realize he’s frowning until you yourself return the expression back at him, leaning forward to peer at his face. He forces a sly smile.
“You act all excited and then call me your friend. You might give me the wrong idea.”
“Augh!” You exclaim, and Emre guffaws at your reaction. “You’re such a flirt. You might give me the wrong idea.” You shove him playfully to the side, and he returns the gesture by nudging your shoulder with his. Then, Emre falls quiet and the two of you walk in silence. You would call it comfortable if it had been, but there’s a sort of tension in the air that’s got you suddenly aware of your heart hammering in your chest. From all the excitement, of course.
Emre holds the door open for you and you lead him through the Friday night crowd, lucky to have found seats at the bar where two empty drinks are. The guests that had been sitting here must have just left.
The bartender apologizes and removes the drinks from in front of you.
“Oh! Can I get three shots of tequila to start, please?”
Emre raises his eyebrows at you before ordering a Whiskey Sour for himself. When the bartender whisks away to make your drinks, he says, “Did you eat yet?”
You busy yourself with your phone for a moment, and Emre catches a glimpse of your lock and home screen picture, the same picture as you’d set for his contact. “No, of course not.”
“Well, maybe you should eat.” Emre is reaching for the food menu when the drinks arrive. You take the menu from his hands and shove it away.
“Nah, fuck that. There’s only one thing I’m trying to get tonight and it’s not full. Actually, there are, like, maybe two things I’m trying to get, but getting full is neither of those things.”
Emre gives you an incredulously amused look. “What’s the other thing?”
The bartender has returned with the drinks, along with a small platter of salt and slices of lime. You slide one of the shots toward him and dab at the salt with your finger. “You’ll see. Maybe.”
Emre wonders how exactly he’ll ‘see’ when you take Emre’s hand and pour the salt on the back before giving yourself some. You and he lick the salt at the same time, hook your arms around each other, a tradition the two of you share for every first shot of the night, and throw the clear liquid back down your throats. Emre handles the taste well, but you violently hiss and shudder, gagging behind your hand before fumbling for a slice of lime that you bite deeply into, your mouth twisting. Then, you repeat the process with the second shot.
Over the course of the next three hours, Emre watches you guzzle down shot after shot, with a few cocktails mixed in between. The two of you catch up on the last week’s events, though Emre couldn’t help but notice that in your twelve shots and five cocktails, he’s only had three of each. He orders you a club sandwich and a platter of deviled eggs that you try to protest against but end up giving in to.
“You should probably start slowing down,” Emre says with a laugh. You’re holding yourself quite well with how many drinks you’ve had, and although he’s quite concerned, he can’t help but be a little impressed. He is always impressed by how much you can drink when the two of you go out.
“You’re only saying that because your muscles absorb all the alcohol.” You reach out to squeeze his toned bicep, of which you could barely wrap both hands around. Then, luckily for Emre, you press your cheek to his deltoid, so that you can’t see his cheeks erupt in pink.
“I didn’t have as many drinks as you.” Emre reaches for the last deviled egg and picks at the last of your sandwich. “You’re going to destroy your liver.”
“Liver shmliver,” you scoff. You order another cocktail, then turn your entire body toward him. You place your elbow on the bar top and prop your head up in your palm. “Liver is temporary. A good night with Emre is forever.”
Emre frowns with a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
You flag the bartender and order four green tea shots with vigor and politeness, before whipping to face Emre. “You know that this is your fault.” You poke him on his pectoral.
Emre’s jaw falls at your accusation. “How is this my fault?”
“If you’d just stop asking me out on dates I wouldn’t be drinking this much.” You pull a pretty decent expression that convinces Emre that you actually believe this, before your face lights up. “That is what these are, right? You’re always asking me out on dates all the time. Because you looove me. You love me, and you have a big, fat, nasty crush on me. Just admit it.”
Then Emre realizes what your true accusation is. He searches your face for any sort of admission of your own. The answer sits at the tip of his tongue, but he’s unsure whether you’re just egging him on, whether you’re trying to get him to confess before turning around to make fun of him and laugh in his face. Under different circumstances, he would not have suspected this at all, but the drinks are worming their way through his brain. His face feels incredibly warm.
“I do love you.”
You sense the uncertainty in his voice and raise an eyebrow. “But not enough to consider this a date?”
Emre looks up and off to the side, as if in thought. “I suppose I would consider this as taking my good friend out on a friendly date. As friends. Because we’re good friends and I like taking my good friend out on friendly dates.”
You don’t seem to understand that he’s poking fun at you. Your jaw practically drops to the floor, and you turn away with a hurt expression that twists your mouth. You shove two of the four shots his way and down them as if you’d just been rejected. Emre takes them a little more slowly and watches you as you sway in your seat before tumbling off of it onto your feet.
“I don’t feel good. Let’s go home.”
Emre takes note of your words, speaking as though the two of you shared a home to return to together. He leashes you to him with a gentle grip on your wrist, herding you to the cashier to tab out.
“Wait!” you gasp. “Here, here. Let me pay.” You fumble for the wallet in your back pocket and shove it into his chest. “Take the black credit card out of there.”
“It’s okay. I’ll pay.”
“No! Please. I drank the most, so let me pay.”
Emre eyes you for a moment and decides that you won’t stop insisting. So instead, he smiles at you and takes your wallet before swapping it in his hand for his own when you’re not looking. At the cashier, he tucks your arm under his to keep you from disappearing. You wrap your arms around his torso and lean your face against his back. Emre is hoping you can’t feel his heart hammering in his chest as he tabs the both of you out, calm, cool, collected, putting on a convincing facade, as if your embrace isn’t currently affecting him.
The cool night air feels fantastic on Emre’s hot face and he’s sure you feel the same. You’re strutting down the sidewalk beside him and he has to grab your hand to prevent you from turning down the wrong street.
“That was a really nice friendly date between two friends,” you say with an almost despondent sigh. When Emre tries to let go of your hand, you lace your fingers through his.
“I was just kidding.”
But you don’t exactly hear him, because you’re suddenly running for the nearest bush over which you bend and begin to retch. Emre is shocked at first, but he can’t seem to stop himself from bursting out laughing as he watches you throw your guts up, along with every drink and every bit of food you had that night.
Emre presses a sturdy hand to your back and massages you, coaxing the rest of the poison out of your body. “Okay, you done? Let’s get you home.”
“Oh, god. That was bad,” you heave, pausing for a moment before you expel the rest of it. “Sorry, that was so bad. That’s so gross.”
“You think I haven’t seen you do this before?” Emre chuckles. He takes your hand again and leads you the rest of the way to your home.
When the two of you reach your door, he feels around in your pockets for your keys. He has to get close for this, of course, and you seize this opportunity to wrap your arms around him, hanging off of him like a wet towel.
Emre backs up through the door, dragging you in with him, and before he can bid you a farewell, you mumble into his chest, “Stay with me.”
“I… should probably get home. You need some rest.”
“Pleeease.” You press your chin into his muscles and look up at him, and this is exactly what he had secretly been hoping for, for you to beg him. “Pleeease. Please, if you love me. Spend the night with me. Let’s have a friendly little sleepover.”
Emre almost instantly gives in. He kicks the door closed and locks it before pulling you upstairs. “You should probably take a shower.”
“Shower with me.”
Emre’s heart stops for a good second. You look dead serious. And if Emre hadn’t taken the last two shots, he probably would have still had the sense to turn this suggestion down.
“Come, come.”
Now, you’re pulling him into the bathroom, and he watches you with a dumbfounded look on his face as you start stripping in front of him. Sure, he considers you his best friend, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you fully naked. Maybe a little bit when the two of you got a little too rowdy, but not fully.
“What’s the problem? Cat got your tongue? Did the drinks sap all the charm and charisma out of you? Or whatever it is they say.” He’s not even sure what saying you’re referring to. You start the shower, waiting for the water to heat up, and you shiver as you stand completely nude.
Against his better judgment, Emre peels his own clothes off and helps you into the shower. The warmth of the water relaxes his muscles and he can see you practically melting. He’s not even too sure what to do with himself, so he decides on grabbing the soap and rubbing it into your back as you work on your face, head, and front. Emre is too focused on averting his gaze, on making sure that he’s not staring too hard that he’d nearly forgotten to scrub himself down. Your insistence on having him join you had caught him so off-guard, but he thinks he can see himself feeling natural being this intimate with you as time goes on. He is certainly not averse to having this be a part of his nightly routine.
As he’s rinsing himself off, you’re stepping out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a towel. You set aside a towel for him and he notices you brushing your teeth vigorously.
You get yourself into an oversized shirt and crawl into your bed under the thick duvet. Emre searches for some leftover clothes he’d left here from when he had crashed at your place a while ago, finding them washed and neatly folded on your dresser.
“Goodnight,” he calls from the bedroom door, and he’d be lying if he hadn’t said this to get a reaction out of you. You instantly shoot up from where you’re lying, throwing a hand to your head at the sudden movement.
“What? Where are you going!?”
“Downstairs to the couch?”
“Nooo. Come here.” You slam your hand down on the empty space beside you.
Emre doesn’t argue. When he gets close enough, you reach for his wrist and pull him onto the bed, perhaps a little too aggressively though you’re quick to apologize.
“We’re just having a friendly sleepover. What’s a friendly sleepover if my good friend isn’t in bed with me?”
“Well, then, I don’t think that’s a friendly sleepover anymore,” Emre says, settling down beside you on his back. He stares up at the ceiling, willing his heart to calm down.
“Isn’t that what this is? We’re two friends, ending a lovely, friendly date, with a cute, friendly sleepover.”
Emre turns his head on the pillow to look at you, both of your hands tucked under your head as you gaze up at him.
“I said I was kidding.”
“Are you?”
You move closer to him, propping your body up on an elbow, and Emre’s eyes track your gaze which never left his face.
“Are you?” he asks, thinking back to how insistent you had been on calling him your friend.
“Well… no. Unless I have a reason to think that we’re not… friends.” You leave out the word ‘just,’ and he catches this. Your face is a mere foot from his, maybe even less.
You’re breathing with some effort, and so is Emre. He can feel his heart in his throat as he watches your eyes, flicking down, presumably at his mouth, then up again. He takes a deep breath. It’s not like he doesn’t plan to ever confess to you. He just hadn’t thought it would be now, while the both of you are pretty drunk out of your minds. Although he fears very little at this point in his life, he is admittedly worried you might forget about this in the morning, or worse, you might regret it.
But you look so solemn, so serious, and you just hover over him, like you’re waiting for him to do something. It’s almost like neither of you are willing to make the first move. Except Emre finds it in himself to lay his hand on your warm cheek. He takes a moment to feel your skin, to savor the feeling of intimately touching you, caressing your cheekbone with his thumb. This seems to be all the encouragement you need, and finally you dip your head down, pressing your lips to his.
Emre curls his hand behind your neck, his other arm wrapping around your back to pull you closer, flush against his body. He feels you melt into the kiss, and when you part your lips to ask for more he follows your lead, allowing himself a moment to explore your minty mouth. Then it occurs to him why you’d taken the extra step to brush your teeth.
Emre presses his body against yours, gently pushing you so that now you’re on your back and he’s on top of you. His hand travels under your shirt as your leg wraps around his waist. He tongues your mouth, and when your tongue touches his, his stomach flips. He kisses the corner of your mouth and trails his lips across your jaw and down to your neck.
“I love you,” you murmur against his ear, and he leans away to look at you. “When I kept calling you a friend, I was just trying to get a reaction out of you. I’m sorry. I definitely wouldn’t just call you a friend if it was my choice.”
Emre gazes at you tenderly, running his hand over your forehead and down your cheek. “It is your choice, though.”
“It’s your choice, too.” You pet his face the way he had done to you, and although he’s always known it, he’s reminded of how badly he has wanted you to touch him in this way for as long as he can remember.
So he says, “I love you,” hoping this will get his choice across to you.
“Enough to take me out on a date?”
“More than that.” He presses his lips to your sweet, gentle smile one last time.
You yawn widely and nestle your face into his shoulder when he settles back down. With an arm wrapped around your waist, you sleep soundly, and Emre lies awake for a while longer, thinking of your lips on his, thinking of where he’ll take his relationship with you next.