King And Queen Of The Weekend, Chapter 2: Time We Danced With The Truth
Peyton x Blaine, post-“Some Like It Hot Mess.” Part angsty fix-it-fic, part smut, with just a dash of songfic along the way for flavor. A plot bunny that would not be denied, this was heavily inspired by Lorde’s Melodrama, especially “Sober.”
Summary: Blaine’s turn. What happens when you and your ex both decide to drown your feelings rather than facing them...in the same bar, with an unoccupied piano? "No matter what can be said about the wasted potential that is Blaine Debeers, he is not and will never be exactly like his father, because the old man would never sidle up to a piano in a dive bar and start playing quietly for his own entertainment.”
Cross-posted on AO3; fun with tags + more notes can be found there.
“So even if I faked losing my memory, you wouldn’t be a little mad?”
“I don’t know. I’m just–I’m so happy right now.”
“I have good news. Major is going to get his memory back…and the good news doesn’t stop there. This is me. This version of me, small business owner, amateur lounge singer, guy that feels lucky every time you walk through that door.”
—-
Blaine keeps moving, on autopilot. What other choice does he have? The show must go on, right? He quits playing piano, though, when the customers complain. They want more upbeat music and he just…doesn’t care. He’s tired of faking it. Hello irony, oldest of friends.
It’s the brain biz instead, again. Scheming and clawing his way back to being king of the hill is what comes naturally, so that’s what he does, burying his feelings.
He’s a villain; they’re not supposed to have feelings anyway. Idiotic to have let himself believe otherwise.
Branching out suppliers while he tests the blue juice leads him south to a small town for the weekend. He could’ve sent Don E., but he wanted the distance. The time. Once business is concluded, he heads straight for a bottle.
The town’s only bar was easier to find than a solitary bottle of Jack, so he settles in a corner, sulking over his whiskey while the entire place seems to be filled with couples.
They kiss, they cuddle, they share shots like the world might end tomorrow–little do they know–and they’re everywhere, physical reminders that against all odds, he actually got the girl, only to lose her again.
Technically, he remembers, he’s lost her twice now. That’s when he decides this particular establishment isn’t doing him any favors and gets up to leave…until he sees the piano.
Much like a beautiful woman, he’s always had a hard time resisting the lure of a piano. His father disapproved of such a sentimental pastime, but his mother–and then grandfather–encouraged the lessons, and eventually, every session of putting his fingers to the keys felt like fighting back.
It still does, bringing solace along with the bittersweet memories of his mother’s hands on his and his grandfather teaching him old Irish ballads. No matter what can be said about the wasted potential that is Blaine Debeers, he is not and will never be exactly like his father, because the old man would never sidle up to a piano in a dive bar and start playing quietly for his own entertainment.
“Love and other moments are just chemical reactions in your brain, in your brain...and feelings of aggression are the absence of the love drug in your veins, in your veins...”
As song choices go, it’s a bit on the nose, but he’s half-drunk and moping over Peyton, much as he wishes he wasn’t, and it’s what comes to mind. Along with it comes more moping, because he came here to forget–but he can't.
She sparkled.
That was the thing about Peyton that had first tugged at him. From the beginning, underneath her professional demeanor and through all the dark, dismal events to follow, she glowed in a way that made him want to be near her.
If he simply wanted sex and conversation he could find a beautiful woman in a bar somewhere, without getting mixed up with the ADA whose help was crucial to his plan. Slipping her his card was as practical as it was invitational, given how well he knew Mr. Boss and the danger she was courting. Against his own interests, he cared that she might get hurt because of her involvement in this scheme of his.
He never thought she'd invite him to stick around after work, as it were, to get a little sloppy on fine whiskey and do very little talking. All he’d really wanted was a little flirtation and to get rid of Mr. Boss. But when he laid out the map for her and connected the dots, she just lit up at him and took his breath away.
That was unexpected.
She made him a little tongue-tied, awkward, slightly off his game. He had better lines, smoother moves, but facing her, he was more the teenage loser of his youth than the suave king he’d remade himself to be.
The worst part was, he liked it.
“Love come quickly, because I feel my self-esteem is caving in, it’s on the brink...”
Had anybody ever come so close to sweeping him off his feet? It was a silly thought for someone who’d made a name for himself as a killer and drug dealer, but Peyton just had this way about her, part warrior queen, part soft and warm and vulnerable. The way she entered an interrogation room and demanded his release, as though anyone she came into contact with should be expected to do nothing less than exactly what she commanded.
Maybe it was a lawyer thing; he wouldn’t know. But it was hot.
And though he’d never admit it to anyone, she tunneled right into his weak spot. All he’d managed to make of himself, out of his personal hell growing up, was a cliche. The poor little rich boy, the failed entrepreneur…the thief who barely managed to graduate to drug dealer on somebody else’s turf. Once his grandfather was locked up, long after his own mother didn’t think he was worth living for, Blaine just didn’t see the point. Survival he was good at, but believing he was worth something? He'd left that behind as soon as he was old enough to understand how much his own father hated him.
Peyton was the first person to try and protect him, to stand up for him, since he was a child. It was the strangest feeling, but not unwelcome. Instead it was terrifying, because he wanted to lean into it, accept it. Her hand on his back as she ordered his father to leave, snapping at Ravi and choosing him over Major, welcoming him into their home when she knew Liv wouldn’t.
Not to mention, how she exuded cool with her shields up, so different from the woman he’d parted ways with who’d still been flush and warm and relaxed from their spontaneous encounter in her office. It should have been awkward, when they pulled back and tugged their clothes into place and she smoothed down her couch cushions, but it wasn’t.
She had grinned at him, seeming totally at ease, possibly the most confidently sexy woman he’d ever met, and asked flippantly, “Catch you later?”
Her grin was contagious. “Well,” he’d replied, “I do have a previously scheduled appointment to go over evidence with this smokin’ hot attorney. Maybe we could hook up after that?”
“Sounds good.” She linked her arms behind his neck, leaning in for a long, slow kiss. “Tell me more about this attorney.”
“Hmm…” He let his gaze wander down her body and back up to her deep hazel eyes. “Well, she’s gorgeous, and smart, and brave...”
Peyton interrupted him. “Brave?”
“Definitely. Not just anybody would take on Mr. Boss, let alone face him solo in her office without caving in to the fear. He threatened you,” Blaine reminded her gently. “And you stuck.”
She shrugged. “It’s my job. I’m good at it.”
“That’s kinda my point. But it’s more than that. You’re in it for more than the title and salary. I can tell. You really want to get him–just for what he does to this fair city of ours. That’s an admirable quality.”
“Well, we share it.” She gestured at her outfit. “So. Do I look like someone who just had sex on government property?”
“Huh. Presuming I know what that looks like,” Blaine replied, “no. I think you’re good to go.”
Nodding, Peyton stepped back toward him for one last kiss. “Then I’ll see you around.”
“Love come quickly, because I don’t think I can keep this monster in, it’s in my skin...”
He almost went for it that night on the couch. He almost couldn’t help himself, his hands full of Peyton and everything he secretly wanted most beneath his new persona. He couldn’t do it, of course–what if she regretted it? he knew he would regret it–but he almost did before he managed to pull back.
He wasn’t exactly known for his impulse control, before her. But he really did want to be better. Worthy of her company, let alone her affection. Worth that smile she shot his way that warmed the darker parts of his soul.
She made him feel poetic.
There was nothing he could do about how damaged he was long before they ever met, or what he did before and after becoming a zombie. But he was just a man now, and he wanted a real chance with her. So he stopped it.
He spent the night tossing and turning on the couch, cold without her, and wishing he’d never lied in the first place.
“Love and other socially acceptable emotions are morphine, they’re morphine, cleverly concealing primal urges often felt but rarely seen, rarely seen...”
When she took his hand the next morning, and led him to her room, he couldn’t believe it. And he didn’t try to stop it. She chose him, knowing his past, knowing the new man he was trying so hard to be–her hands were in his hair, her lips were parted against his, and they were kissing in the muted daylight where it felt like a dream.
He didn’t ever want to wake up.
His old life and the new one where she treated him like a decent guy who she was interested in were worlds apart. Despite her best friend being a zombie, Peyton had managed to stay surprisingly untouched by the violence surrounding her. She fought the seedy underbelly of the city…and he belonged in it.
But not anymore. He’d gotten his second chance, and he was determined to keep earning it, every day with her. Standing in her sunny bedroom, he lifted her shirt up, letting his fingers trace her skin as it was exposed. She stretched into his touch and he wondered if she did yoga, then refused to get distracted by how sexy the idea of her doing yoga was.
He was such a lost cause when it comes to Peyton Charles, it was ridiculous.
Unlike the last time, Blaine didn’t ask if she was sure, because he knew her well enough to know that this wouldn’t be happening if she weren’t. Instead, he indulged, the way they didn’t during their fateful one-night stand, when things were too new and frantic and fueled by the risk of getting caught at any moment.
Now, he could take full advantage of the light warming her bronze skin, drinking in his fill of how she looked in her bra and soft cotton pjs, before he slid those down her endlessly long legs and followed them with kisses.
“God, you’re gorgeous.”
She was so beautifully responsive, angling toward his every touch, humming her appreciation. It made him want to stay with her for days, finding every sensitive spot and claiming it for himself.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she breathed back.
Peyton was already exploring him in return, dispatching his t-shirt and running her hands over his chest, leaning in toward him as her hands drifted lower.
Their lips met with excruciating slowness, neither of them rushing toward the bed. He traced her lips with his tongue, and when they parted she sighed. Then their tongues met eagerly while his fingers roamed down her back to caress her ass.
Her hand grazed him through his boxers and he jolted, growling against her mouth, their kisses growing more passionate. With an easy flick of his fingers, Blaine opened the front clasp of her bra and slid the straps off each shoulder.
They finally began inching toward the bed, still linked at the lips, her hands in his hair as the full length of her pressed against him. He kneeled next to her when they landed, running his hands over her chest and following his fingertips with his mouth.
Peyton moaned when he tugged lightly on one nipple and circled it with his tongue. He was stroking the other with his fingertips, shifting his legs so that one was between her knees and pressing against her. She rocked against him a little as their lips met and parted, breath growing thick and more desperate.
Her hands gripped his back, digging in as he continued to explore her, running his tongue along the crease of soft skin beneath her breast, then blowing lightly on her nipple before taking it back into his mouth.
Her hands moved up to his neck, running through his hair until he ceded control of the kiss to her, and she left him panting for breath. Then she was gripping his shoulders as his mouth found the curve of her neck and lingered there, leaving behind the faintest of marks.
She arched up toward him, nails digging into his skin, and he moved over, making room to slide down and let his mouth journey south. His lips left a heated trail down her taut stomach and over to her hip, where he planted a firm kiss that made her shiver.
Peyton released her grip on him and reached out to run her fingers along the waistline of his shorts. With her eyes closed, she waited until he leveraged himself up and then she tugged them off. He kicked them away, sucking in air as her hands found him and caressed the sensitive skin beneath his balls.
Blaine teased his fingers along the edge of her satin thong, then slid it aside to circle her clit with his fingers. Peyton started to shift along with his movements, quaking against the sheets.
“Oh, God. Blaine,” she murmured, taking him in her hand and stroking. His fingers kept moving against her until he was hard and ready, and their mouths clashed as he lifted himself.
She was wet and hot when he slid into her, and he found himself whispering endearments in her ear, just like the last time.
They moved together with an easy familiarity that didn’t make sense for only their second time, but he didn’t question it, straining with her toward their lush, convulsive peak. To Blaine, she felt like coming home.
“Love I beg you, lift me up into that privileged point of view, the world of two...”
Nothing she said was wrong. He was selfish, and greedy…and sad, most of all. He was angry at her for the way she tricked him into confessing–lied to him, led him into a trap–but he couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm for it, because he'd done far worse. And she was right.
He hadn’t been thinking about her friends, or making a fool of her, when his memories came back and he pretended they hadn’t. He’d been thinking about himself, which, once he had his memories back, he knew was what he always did. How he’d always been, before.
It took everything he had not to chase after her. Not to go looking, to make his case, the way he might with anybody else. But this was Peyton, who won arguments for a living, and he knew it would just make things worse. So he covered up the wound with jokes and business and liquor and tried to move on.
“Love don’t leave me, because I console myself that Hallmark cards are true, I really do...”
The liquor isn’t helping much. It never really does. Must be the Irish in him; drinking just makes him maudlin.
He sips again anyway, because he’s here and has nothing better to do, closing his eyes and remembering the way Peyton leaned back that first night, her skirt shifting and catching his attention when she crossed her legs. Her voice was sultry between sips, inviting--more intoxicating than the alcohol.
He’s not sure which is more of a tragedy, the fact that getting his memories back means he lost her, or the fact that having them means he remembers so clearly what he’s lost.
Putting his own flourish on the melody with one hand and sipping with the other, he catches movement in his peripheral vision that makes him dizzy.
He must be more drunk than he realizes, Blaine thinks, if he’s starting to hallucinate. This one isn’t exactly the way he would’ve imagined it, if he had a choice in hallucinations…which is how he knows he’s not that drunk.
Peyton’s come back to him, in all her fierce and shining glory–but she doesn’t look happy to see him. In fact, she seems just as stunned as he is, striding toward him with an accusatory finger outstretched.
He can’t help leaning into the chorus as their eyes meet, as she approaches without hesitation and all he can feel is the dull ache of missing her.
“I’m gunning down romance…it never did a thing for me, but heartache and misery—ain’t nothing but a tragedy.”
She carries herself like a fighter ready for the next round, despite her slightly glassy eyes and the tequila on her breath. If this is Peyton Charles on tequila, no wonder she wouldn’t tell him about it that first night.
She raises her voice over the piano he’s still playing, heedless of the heads that turn their way.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”