Peyton felt a tremor of excited anticipation as she descended the stairs. It wasn't even a few months ago when such a feeling would be the last thing her body experienced while entering a place where brains were sold and bodies were embalmed or cremated. Blaine DeBeers seemed to have a talent for making her feel emotions she never would've expected, and he was the person waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
Blaine didn't tell her what they were doing tonight, and his outfit didn't give away any hints: a short-sleeved collar shirt that complemented his eyes, and dark denim jeans. His beaded bracelets wound around his wrists as always. He greeted her with that charming lopsided grin of his that made Peyton's heart skip a beat.
The thing Peyton hated about surprises was she couldn't come prepared. She pushed her long hair off her shoulder, feeling pleased she made a good educated guess on what outfit to wear. Her cream-colored blouse was casual enough, her skirt more frilly than anything she would've worn to work. Blaine's eyes swept over her appreciatively.
Peyton broke the silence first: "Okay, I give up. What are we doing?"
"Sating my curiosity." Blaine moved away, returning with two shot glasses and a bottle. He set all three objects down on an embalming table. It took a second for Peyton to register the objects, and one second more to form her response:
"Why not?" Peyton's own words echoed in her mind: Oh, no, you do not want to see what happens when I drink tequila. Blaine had laughed, assuring her he did, but she never expected him to remember that conversation.
"No." Her voice was more firm this time. Their eyes met, a battle of who could be more stubborn. Blaine broke first; he lifted the bottle and poured a shot, knocking it down his throat.
"Com on, then, guv'ner," he coaxed her in his fake Cockney accent. "Have a bit of fun with me."
Peyton couldn't help the smile that cracked her lips. "Really? Going drunk Cockney on a single shot? You're such a lightweight."
Blaine responded with a chuckle. He leaned in, fingers brushing her cheek as he pressed his lips against hers. Peyton's fingers curled gently in his hair, her tongue lightly tasting the tequila on his mouth.
The truth of the matter was Peyton never let anyone see what happened when she drank tequila. Most liquors did nothing to her; she could snap back from any drinking game, none the worse for wear. She discovered what happened when she drank whiskey in college, but it was tame enough to be dismissed as harmless and amusing. Tequila did its nasty work on her only once, when she was with Liv, and by then the two of them were close enough that any measure of humiliation would only strengthen their friendship.
But to humiliate herself like that in front of a man she was dating? Absolutely not. Peyton's fingers made one more pass through Blaine's hair before she broke their kiss. The mirth was gone from his eyes, replaced by a more thoughtful expression.
"I'm feeling a little insulted," he frowned, "that you think there's anything you could do that would change how I see you. It's me." Blaine raised an eyebrow.
What was it Blaine said? She exuded a power over me. I was helpless to resist. Peyton understood what he meant now; she was feeling that same power, that same helplessness.
Peyton let out a breath, crossing over to the table and picking up the tequila bottle. "If what happens leaves this room," she warned him, pouring a shot, "I will dig the heel of my Sergio Rossi into your balls so hard you'll be forced to sing falsetto for the rest of your life."
Both of Blaine's eyebrows were up now as he held up his fingers in a Boy Scout salute. "I'm both terrified and excited. Hit me with your best shot."
Several shots of tequila later, Peyton had Blaine's beaded bracelets wound into her hair to give her pigtails. Her hand was curled around the handle of an invisible microphone and she was singing along with the voices on the radio.
"Am I your fiiiiiiire, your one deeeeesiiiiire. I know it's tooooo late, but I waaaaant it thaaaat way."
Blaine watched her with his eyes wide, a hand clasped firmly over his mouth to prevent any laughter from escaping. The song hit the chorus and Peyton started moving in a staggered but practiced dance. Peyton's voice amazingly stayed on key as she sang. She finished with a flourish, holding the invisible microphone over her head like a triumphant rock star.
"Wow," was all Blaine could manage. He slid fingers through his hair and added, lip quirking up, "I have found a new appreciation for the Backstreet Boys."
"You knew which 90's boy band that was," Peyton pointed out, waving the imaginary microphone in his face. "I wonder what that says about you?"
"That I clearly have good taste," Blaine quipped, closing his hand around hers and pulling Peyton toward him. Her lips were parted before their mouths even met. Blaine's kisses made her head spin more than any alcohol. He was dangerous to her even more than tequila, but she kissed him all the same.
Another song came up on the radio and Peyton broke their kiss with her laughter. Of all the songs in the world to be playing at this moment... Blaine pulled away from her, his eyes bright with mischief. To Peyton's great surprise, he started dancing along to the music in awkward, jerking motions. Very familiar jerking motions. A laugh burst out from Peyton.
"You're a dork," she declared.
"I wonder what that says about you?" he retorted. Peyton poured herself another shot, gulped it down, then moved to join him in the dance.
"That I clearly have good taste." Then the two of them shouted the word of the song together: "TEQUILA!"
