Good luck, babe
Dean Di Laurentis x reader x John Logan
Word count: 5.6k
Warnings: English’s not my first language, cursing, kinda angsty, yearning, fluff, banter, but mostly yearning, LOVE TRIANGLE (girls want a harem too)
Summary: Dean's been your best friend since freshman year, so why does it hurt to see him with other girls? You say you're fine, you're not. One night with too many drinks leads to decisions you'll come to regret later because in the drunken haze you blurt out you love his teammate, not him.
Or
How to say you love Dean without ending up saying it's Logan you're in love with.
A/n: this is part 1 and so far my best work. Can't stop giggling at the masterpiece i wrote (humbly). Please leave comments on whatever you think and let me know you if wanna be added into a tag list. Also REQUESTS ARE OPEN
“You’re spiralling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Look— not everyone has a rich ass family ready to pay for education in any uni you want.”
“First of all— rude. Second—“
Dean flashes you a dimpled grin that’s absolutely devoid of any hint of offence and oh so full of smugness.
“Got lucky being born into that rich ass family, y’know?”
His hand runs through his ridiculously too messy to be looking good hair before flopping back on your bed with a huff.
“If it comes to worst and you fail the semester test— which is as likely as me going celibate—“
Never then.
He opens his mouth before closing it and tilting his head with a warmer look on his face.
“I’ll pay for your studies.”
You quirk a brow cuz— no. You got here on your own. Got the scholarship. Got the grades. Got into the uni most dreamt about but worried that now would fail it because of a dumb test on macroeconomics. Who even put economics in a humanist major syllabus?
A sigh escapes you. Because for whatever it’s worth, his suggestion warms up your insides. You don’t wanna be in debt to anyone, too afraid that it constricts the freedom of your behaviour— gotta keep up the smile for someone who helped you out, right? Of course Dean wouldn’t hold it against you, you know that. But it’s still not what you’re used to. Yet his offer is sweet. Because you know that no matter how much of an empty head he seems— he is genuine in the ways that matter.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Negative.”
“Fucking positive.”
“Dean.”
He mimics you and calls out your name in the same tone but with a teasing tilt that has everything to do with the power of nature born in no other than Dean himself — natural charm you think you could never master.
“Deanie, we have democracy. That means you gotta get my consent.”
“Oh, I am a consent king, just not when ladies refuse a good deal.”
You try not to let your mind wander to the implication but— fuck, that again. His flirtatious remarks that keep making your heart skip a beat every time.
The worst thing? Dean does it on instinct. Flirt with anyone, strings to no one.
“Look— I just need my best friend okay and sane—… as much as a nerd can be.”
You throw him a half-annoyed look but it doesn’t hold weight because you’re sighing heavily. You’re so tired of trying to mold your brain into understanding how the formulas work that you don’t bother arguing.
“C’mon. One evening out— no studying, no tasks, no work.”
“Being your friend is pretty hard work though.”
“Jeez, easy with my heart here.”
He pulls his lips in a mock pout that looks so out of place on his gorgeous face before chuckling and abruptly standing up from your bed. He claps his hand as if finishing negotiating some business deal rather than trying to get you to get some fresh air.
“Guys are already preparing for the hang-out.”
“As in— a full blast party hangout?”
“You know me too well.”
He flashes you a smirk before turning his head back to studying your dorm room as if he’s seeing it for the first time. He’s not.
“Wait, why aren’t you helping them?”
“I’m busy.”
“Busy how?”
A wince escapes him as he picks up sunglasses from your vanity that were too small for his head but still end up perched on his nose. He strikes a pose leaning back against the vanity, his legs crossed, hand reaching to fix his hair in the way that a girl trying to pick a guy would do.
“Playing the cool bitch friend.”
A huff of laughter escapes you and that’s his cue to stand up with a smirk.
“It’s done, you’re coming.”
***
How did you meet Dean?
Freshman year. First marketing lecture. And a very awkward-filled moment when you think it couldn’t be more awkward.
You walk up the stairs in the lecture hall to find a free seat.
Despite it being just a few days since the start of the semester, a few cliques had already formed. Or maybe they’d known each other before the uni?
You see the girls with the kind of makeup that makes them look like models sit on the third row, actively chatting about something you don’t really catch. And somehow that gnaws at you cuz no matter how beautiful you think you look trying to dress up and stuff— the moment you turn your gaze from the mirror to the outside world, the pretty image of yourself cracks.
A few bulky guys— you’d say jocks but university seems the kind of place you gotta start avoiding cliches— on the second row. Closer to the desk. But not to listen- to keep snorting just as loudly cuz they don’t care. Or at least pretend not to too busy asserting dominance over the room simply by their hunky existence.
You gaze quickly scans the rest of the room— nerds on the first row, nervous kids in the back and then there are— you.
It’s kinda lame how someone can doubt if they’re good enough just because others don’t squeal at the sight of them.
But that’s how you feel.
You choose a seat on the fourth row. Not close enough to be noticed, not far enough to be forgotten.
The first lecture’s not the most difficult. At least- it’s not supposed to be. But as much as everything unknown seems daunting— it is too.
You know you’ll eventually pull in, maybe make friends, get familiar with Briar U and will remember the first day as something funny—
You hope you will. But one look at the “cool kids” and you doubt it all ever again.
Enough pessimistic thinking.
Breath in, breath ou—
DANG.
The door opens almost as if someone tried to rip it open— you flinch at the sound, so do a few others, the professor turning her head at the sound with an indignant look.
But the one standing there isn’t some angry kid slamming doors to show off some generational trauma—
Broad shoulders, tall, confident stride and—
It’s a gorgeous blonde with a smile that makes your heart beat in the way that goes through the whole body.
And not only yours, it seems.
You see everyone look up.
He saunters in the room with such a nonchalant look that you almost think his level of “don’t give a damn” could be the 8th wonder of the world.
“Sorry, Mrs.—“
He paused to quickly glance at the board with the name scribbled on it.
“—Clark. Got caught up in a—..”
You can swear he didn’t even try to come up with the excuse before coming inside as the rest would do. He snaps his fingers as if finally done sorting through the list of plausible excuses in his head.
“—in a jam. Yeah, right. ”
A few let out snickers. You feel a smile pull up at your lips too.
Everyone knows it’s a ten-minute walk from the frat houses and dorms to the campus. Let alone drive.
Mrs. Clark’s not amused though.
“You’re late on the very first week of college—“
She looks up at him expectantly but he doesn’t wait for her to ask. Claiming the room with as much as his presence. And his name.
“Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Well, mister Di Laurentis, make sure not to get into jams anymore. You won’t be able to write it on your midterm test. Take a seat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He nods gravely, but his face is far from bearing a hint of remorse or awkwardness from the display that drew everyone’s gaze to him.
He finally turns to the rows of students and you almost regret having him in your class. How the hell can you focus with someone like that breathing the same air?
The girls on the third row think the same, apparently. Because the moment he starts walking up they shuffle to make it seem as if they have the free seat beside them. And they do.
He gives them a once-over, a smirk pulling at his lips and— did he just wink at them?
Yeah, of course he would.
No way in hell or heaven he’d be a virgin with that body.
But he doesn’t stop there.
One step upwards.
He’s not pausing by your desk and it’s not the fact that he doesn’t look at you— he does. But it’s so brief as the wind in a Sahara desert could be because his eyes glide forward and he passes your row like nothing happened.
And that’s what girls like you hate. It’s not the fact of your invisibility— it’s the fact that you fade like grey in the eyes of someone who’s looking at the bright colours around him.
For a moment, that does it.
Because yeah. He’s a prick.
A pretentious douche with a body like Apollo, fucking gorgeous genes and perhaps even worse ego.
Easier to dismiss him as one that admit a part of you would like to get him look at you for a second longer.
Just as you huff to yourself turning back to the few notes you’d taken so far, a heavy thump emanates right to your left.
Dean.
You blink in surprise— hoping that you don’t look like a gaping Dori but he is there.
But you don’t want to stare— not that it saves you from him noticing that and flashing a dimpled tight-lipped grin at you.
Up close he looks like one of the tv show’s perfect California life savers.
“Hey.”
Oh. He can talk.
“Hey.”
You turn back to writing— or at least pretending you’re writing someone intelligent when a much larger hand comes into view picking up one of the spare pens on your desk.
“You mind?”
“No.”
You watch him for a second but he doesn’t get gown to writing simply because there’s nothing to write on.
So— this guy didn’t even bring backpack or whatever to his lectures.
He takes his time patting his pockets maybe in search of paper or whatever but comes up only with a piece of small crumpled paper.
You notice some numbers on it— someone’s number more like it but he doesn’t even glance twice crumpling it even harder in his hand and letting it fall on the desk with a soft thud.
He instinctively turns his head towards you again and you quickly look away staring at the blackboard.
You wait that he’ll ask for paper but he doesn’t.
Maybe that’s the longest two seconds in your life before he turns his head away and leans back in his chair with a sigh.
The borrowed pen— your pen is placed back on the desk, if only sometimes he twirls it between his fingers from boredom.
Devil-may-care should be Dean-may-care now. Legit.
The professor drones on and you almost focus on something other than the breathing of the guy beside you— or some woodsy cologne with a fresh minty note that makes your nose tingle yet inhale more with each breath. The type of scent you think is overwhelming at first and then can’t get enough of breathing in.
But almost sleeping with eyes open isn’t what focus is, is it?
“Think she knows she has chalk on the elbow?”
The sudden whisper into your ear makes you flinch from the drowsy slumber you were in. You blink away the sleepiness before turning your head to look up at him with a quirked brow.
“What?”
The reaction makes his half-smile widen slightly as if he’s watching some Instagram reel with an adorable but dumb koala. Cute but clumsy as hell.
“The chalk. She looks like she went through war with it and shed some blood.”
You blink again before glancing back at Mrs. Clark who indeed has some chalk on her elbow and half of the jacket she maybe didn’t even notice yet.
“Oh.“
You don’t know what to say to that.
Is he joking? Maybe. Is he bored? Damn yeah. Did he strike up the conversation because sharing glances with the girls who were ready for a quickie during the break grew boring after ten minutes? Also fucking true.
So you don’t. Just hum and study the notes in front of you. Again.
Dean’s not the one to back off. Simply because he’s too fidgety to sit quietly. So he does what he can to kill that boredom until he can leave and find something that looks like actual fun to him— party, hockey, girls.
“What’s your name?”
And just because he knows someone like you will give a one-sentence answer like before he adds.
“No, let me guess. Um— Natalie? Kate? Jessica-with-K? You look like Jessica-with-K.”
You don’t even notice how you let a huff of confusion escape you.
“What does that even mean?”
His lips press into a small pout before he clicks his tongue.
“Not Jessica then.”
An amused smirk pulls at your lips.
“No.”
“Damn bad, you looked like one.”
Your brows furrow again. What does Jessica even look like? But otherwise, thank God, it’s not Bella or some shit.
“Damn bad indeed. You don’t look like a Di Laurentis either.”
Up to this point Dean humoured this convo because yeah— nothing better to do, actually no. Nothing fucking to do while surviving a lecture on how to make people buy stuff. You just make it good and tell the people to buy. No strategy, duh.
But he doesn’t dwell on it because suddenly this quiet girl can speak.
His brows rise a little.
“And what does a Di Laurentis look like?”
You pause.
You didn’t even mean to say it, the professor could notice and give you an earful but now that he’s noticed you—
“Like— a tall, dark-haired macho with a crooked nose? An Italian.”
That makes him crack a smirk.
“So the hair’s at fault.. and the nose, I have a fricking gorgeous nose”.
He does. Your eyes trace his features, the jawline that could cut, almost translucent blue eyes, perfect lips, light brows and— a nose. A tiny crook no one would notice if not watching closely but he still looks handsome.
“Debatable.”
“What, the hair or nose?”
“Both.“
“Cruel.”
An amused grin escapes him again before he tilts his head watching you with an unabashed interest now. You think he looks like a cat— no, like a puppy that’s watching its owner hinting at a walk or snack.
“What do I look like?”
Like a freaking model on some sandy beach with red trunks on and sweat gliding down your six pack—
“Malibu?”
“Ma—“
He doesn’t finish as a loud snort interrupts the lecture. He’s not even trying to hide it fast enough before letting it fade into a fist.
The professor gives him a glance— a few other students do too. Especially the girls, so you do your best and stare at your notes as if you could never be caught as an accomplice to whatever it was.
The moment passes.
His interest doesn’t.
“You just called me Malibu?”
You hate a rush of embarrassment to your cheeks.
“…Yeah.”
“I’m a New York cookie, peaches”.
“I’m not pea—“
You sigh cuz it came out on instinct and honestly, you’re not used to the weird nicknames people give each other. So why peaches?
“You are. All sweet and stuff. And you haven’t told me your name while you know mine. I feel exposed.”
“Exposed?”
“Yeah. Name’s like— the mirror to the soul, y’know?”
It’s the eyes, actually but you don’t say it. Finally, you mutter your name back half convinced he’d forget it by tomorrow.. no, way too optimistic. By the next period.
But he doesn’t.
Not by the next period. Not in a week. Not in two years you spend together as best friends.
***
The sound of booming laughter and ear-splitting loud music greets you right from the porch of the frat house.
It’s familiar.
The way you don’t bother to knock because the door’s not locked is familiar too.
So is the sight of a crowded living room literally infested by people from all over the campus. Some of them already hitting it on the makeshift dance floor, others not drunk enough for that so they stand in line for the whiskey shots off the table.. or bodies.
A few guys play the TV hockey game almost outshouting the music whenever one of them scores or loses.
And then there’s that small crowd already off to upstairs to enjoy the life pleasures you’d never had the courage to pursue but secretly were dying too. Not that the location is the factor though— a few couples are already throwing a full on OnlyFans shooting worth makeout session right under the staircase.
All of that is familiar.
So why do you pause as if shocked by the sight of Dean making out with a brunette on the kitchen counter like there’s no one watching?
His large hands grip her hips as she arches forward into his frame, hands tangled in his blonde hair before trailing lower to graze his back. He’s clad in a graphite t-shirt tonight unbuttoned halfway down and that random girl can touch any inch of that tanned skin now. It must feel so good.
You know it does.
Because even looking at him sets your blood on fire. Along with the bitter feeling licking its way out but you quash it. As you always do.
They keep exchanging saliva and whatever you really don’t wanna think about— cuz you do know that’s definitely not innocent kisses kids share in middle school.
You quickly look away and then walk back to the living room only to realise you’d actually have a drink now. If it weren’t for the couple turning the kitchen into a minefield by making out.
A sigh escapes you at the lameness.
You two aren’t anything.
He doesn’t owe you anything.
Neither do you owe him anything.
But perhaps the heart hasn’t heard of friendzone? It’s not ears, not supposed to hear, after all.
You shake your head because at first you thought it was a crush.
Yeah. A crush on someone who looked like a dream from some teen magazine.
Then it passed. Novelty wears off— everything and everyone has their expiry date.
But friendship remained.
Between hangouts at his house, his energetic nature against your not quite but— less frantic one, you understood that he was the kind of person you didn’t wanna lose.
Warm, supportive and unbearably kind at times.
Only a few months prior you started noticing that the warm feeling grew into a molten lava every time you saw him, heard his voice or, for God’s sake, caught on his cologne.
Lots of self-denial, bargaining, suppressing the feelings that brew under the skin like poison— all of that fruitless as the reality came crashing down.
You’re in love.
And it’s not romantic as it sounds when the object of your desires is the infamous fuckboy on the campus.
You swore you’d never let a guy make you feel small but you always feel a hint of insecurity.
Maybe you’re not the girl he’d kiss like that on the counter?
Maybe he’s not the type you’d kiss openly in front of half the hockey team?
Maybe that’s it.
Match made in hell to drive you crazy and him away.
“You look— like you’re about to cry.. and even if I’m not sexist, I don’t think girls should cry.”
The sound of a melodious voice rips you out of your overthinking; it’s deep and warm, with a bit of a rasp— nice, in short.
So are those brown eyes that you could call molten chocolate or the fluffy hair you think someone styles every day but wouldn’t admit it.
John Logan.
“I’m not crying.”
He tilts his head down to look up at your face from underneath as if looking for something there, expression mockingly grave—before standing upright again with a grin.
“Yeah, false alarm.”
A small grin pulls at your lips.
“Did I look so bad you thought I was ready to spill tears?”
“No. I mean— you looked so good I was ready to spill my tears if it’s any comfort—“
That makes you chuckle. Dean’s friends were always just as friendly to you. Light-hearted. Easy-going.
Tucker always had something delicious whenever you stopped by for a visit. Logan stepped in to help with the leaking tap in the dorm kitchen once and offered a grin every time you passed each other on campus— which wasn’t often but still. Garrett was more closed off but still taught you to play TV hockey to, citing, “beat Dean’s sorry ass”.
And you did. Much to Cinderella’s dismay.
Seeing my smile makes him smile too— an easy one, the one that makes you think everything’s easy and good just because he’s smiling.
“Really, though. You good?”
“Yeah. Peachy.”
It’s visible on his face that he knows what Dean’s up to in the meantime and feels a hint of pity for someone left to wander on their own at the party. Or maybe I did seem so pathetic too busy contemplating about life choices and boys that he decided it was ruining the general mood?
“Then you don’t mind if I steal you from—“
He presses his lips, brows furrowed as he steps closer to look over your shoulder— then another as if expecting someone there. The proximity making your breath hitch for a moment and well, you could catch his scent too, it’s subtler than Dean’s, but warmer? As if cocooned in a blanket on some winter night?
Fuck, what’s with all the scent metaphors as if you’re a sniffing dog?
His soft lips pull up into a crooked grin as his gaze flickers down to yours.
“—no one.”
Maybe you’re stuck studying the flickers of gold in his brown orbs that you don’t notice his hand draping around your shoulders to lead you to the centre of the mayhem.
“What?”
“Play with us. There’s an air hockey contest tonight.”
“Air hockey? Really?”
“You’ll be less sarcastic when you see how much us hockey dudes suck.”
A huff of laughter erupts from your chest— easy, the kind you don’t gotta force as you indeed see a few players on the Briar U team go at it with the most serious faces.
He picks up your laugh with a chuckle of his own, arm still around your shoulder.
Dexter loses by two points and throws a dramatic shout at the end asking for a revanche that’s not coming because there’s someone else standing forward to the center to make everyone look up.
“Listen you— mere mortals. Your pathetic existence is but a speck of dust compared to the records of eternal fame in such a callous sport as—… air hockey.”
A few snicker at the tone Beau uses to speak with.
“Therefore we shall hereby declare—“
Dean steps up readily clapping his best friend’s back once before shouting.
“-.. PAIR CONTEST.”
“What’s a pair contest?”
Logan meets your inquiring gaze with a small smirk.
“Pair. Contest. Two against two.”
You huff a grin at the absurdity. How’s that even comfortable to play with three other people?
But once you turn your head back, Dean’s eyes are already set on you— something you couldn’t ever read in them. For a moment, you think he notices the hand draped over your shoulder and feel the need to explain but— explain what? Nothing? To someone who’s practically no one in a romantic sense? Wasn’t he tonguing the girl in the kitchen just a few minutes ago?
His mischievous grin returns just as quick as he closes the distance between you two, his large hand outstretching on instinct.
“You, my fair lady— are playing with me.”
Before you have the time to laugh off the ridiculous idea, Logan steps up with a smirk of his own.
“I’m afraid she’s already been taken, good sir. Find another partner in crime.”
Logan’s eyes flicker to mine for a moment as if making sure that’s what I want— do I?
“I actually don’t think I wanna play at all…”
Dean huffs in amusement first, hands on hips as if ready to prove a point in an argument.
“You either play with me— the victorious legend or the lil’ cane over here. It’s a yes or yes situation, peaches.”
“You call losing four times in a row victorious?”
Logan huffs amused tilting his head.
“You’re the only one who remembers that.”
“Yeah, and I will forever.”
“Fuck your Dori memory, dude.”
They share a laugh— you laugh too before a hand on your small back gently pushes you to the table in the centre. Logan.
You step forward unsurely, sending a glance over your shoulder at Dean who was left standing with hands on the hips and brows slightly raised in surprise.
He’s not dormant for long because it’s him and some over-energetic party girl with a deep cleavage against you and Logan.
He places the puck on the centre, picks up the paddle with a slow grin, gaze set on you— then Logan.
So does Logan. Both already competitive. On alert. You think it’s a bit too much testosterone for the poor air hockey table but it’ll manage. Cuz suddenly you feel competitive too. Beat Dean’s sorry ass— Garrett said.
You will.
***
“It’s like— 25$ per hour. Fixed the TV set and all the plumbs in the house.”
“Damn— only.. tenty-five?”
“Yeah. Could get myself a Ferrari in like— ninety years.. from the dump, though.”
You crack a drunk laugh leaning back the head against the cool wall of the house. The porch is empty unlike the mayhem inside— that’s gotten worse with the amount of drinks taken.
Logan can’t quite suppress a grin whenever you speak slurring the words and blinking at him like a content house cat. Who knew you were such a lightweight?
“Mm—- you’d be a handsome driver. Like— 101 level of hotiness.”
He snorts again.
“You don’t say.”
“I do! It’s like.. like— uh..”
You blink again trying to think of a metaphor with a stubborn frown at the words that keep eluding you.
“Oh yeah— uh.. pro max hot but with pro maxness of a rocket.”
He hums suppressing an amused grin but you could swear his eyes light up in the dim light, frame leaning against the porch railing and turned to face you better.
“..Specific. What am I without the pro max hot Ferrari from the dump?”
“You—“
You sigh again, brain working overtime because thinking really seems harder than usual.
“Bestest air hockey player?”
“Not without my partner.”
“You got a partner?”
A laugh escapes him as you stare at him dumbfounded— as if it wasn’t you who won it 7:4 with him just an hour ago against Dean and Rachel.. was it Rachel?
“Think it’s time to get you some water.”
He moved to carefully wrap an arm around you and lead inside when you groan in frustration.
“I already drunk— water.. it’s not tasty..”
“It’s not supposed to be, I guess.”
“But why? Why even drink it— if it’s not.. sweet?”
“To stay hydrated.”
You’d be embarrassed by how calmly Logan handled you in a drunken state, leading you inside the house towards the kitchen without a hint of annoyance.
“Hydra— like.. hydrate like fish?”
You nearly stumble over your own feet— clumsily gripping the back of the couch and Logan’s arm to keep steady.
Although it’s him reaching to catch you by the waist— not that you can tell.
“Easy.”
He pauses not making a move to lead you further to the kitchen in search of water.
You head bobs tiredly to glance around you— did you even get this drunk in.. ever? Maybe not. Because it was always about a beer or two. Nothing more. And enough to remember boys’ drunken antics when no one else did. Would you remember your own in the morning?
Couples are swaying in the centre of the room, only a few— others have left for the fun part in any room with and without a lock they could find.. some are playing beer ping pong, others are animatedly arguing about the relation of Brie to Briar U, Logan’s on his knees between your legs—
LOGAN WHAT?!
You stagger back in a fit of shock, feet tangling at themselves successfully sending you flying back on the floor.
You land with a loud thud and a groan.
“The fuck..?”
It comes out as a whine because your drunken mind can’t take the dull ache on the back of the head calmly—
Logan reaches to help you up, hands quickly checking your head for an injury— there’s nothing.
He sighs— certainly regretful of humouring you with drinks earlier.
You send him a bewildered glare.
“What were you—?”
He has the grace to look sheepish, cracking a small grin, head jerking in the direction of your feet.
“Laces.”
It takes solid ten seconds before you realise that you’d stumbled because of them twice already and he was just trying to help by kneeling down to tie them up.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Good to go?”
You are. You think so, at least but he glances at the kitchen and speaks up again.
“Actually— I’m good to go. Let me get you some water. You wait here, deal?”
“Pinky deal.”
“Pink—?“
He’s not even surprised by the drunk talk now and simply flashes you a grin before walking off to the kitchen.
You lean back into the couch with a sigh— a bit of peace would be great now.. but no.
“Peaches. Didn’t know you were such a touch cookie. A hidden talent at destroying 6’4 men and I didn’t even know.”
You see a smirk Dean sends your way lazily sauntering over.
“I didn’t.. too.”
“Where’s the bodyguard?”
“Who? Uh— off to get me water.. not sweet.”
He huffs lightly turning his head to glance in the said direction and that’s enough for you to see the stains on the otherwise perfectly tanned skin even in the dim light of the house.
Lipstick stains.
Hastily wiped off in the corner of his mouth, more leading down his neck to where the graphite T-shirt hides just enough.
Another girl in one night? Second? Third?
Your heart breaks yet again.
Maybe it’s the drinks and haze of them that clouded over your mind.
Maybe it’s the dull ache in the back of your head.
Maybe it’s the noise and music and that overwhelming ambience of the party aftermath.
You take a breath—
Air’s not coming into your lungs.
And his perfectly rugged features blur as moisture gathers in the corners of your eyes.
You bite your lip to keep it in because for God’s sake, to cry at a party over a boy?
“Hey— peach—“
His hands cup the sides of your face gently tilting up to look down at the tears with a frown. He’s defiantly not drunk enough not to notice them.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes dart frantically looking for a sign for what could make his best friend, the girl who basically swept the floor clean with him at air hockey an hour ago tear up.
“You okay?”
“Head..”
“Head?”
He almost tilts your head to watch where but you don’t let him.
“You fell?”
In love?
“Yes.” Hard.
“Logan didn’t look after you?”
“He did—- he..”
“He what? Up and left?”
“No- he was.. on the knees and—“
“He was what?”
His hand snaps in the kitchen’s direction.
“He—.. what he— you’re crying ‘cuz Logan did something?”
“No!”
You shake off his hands with a sniffle taking a step back, feet thankfully not sending you on the floor this time.
“Then what?”
“I—“
You. You are the reason. To smiles. To heartbreaks. To the warmth and fire, the reason’s you.
“Nothing.”
“There is something.”
“No-“
“Yes.”
He steps closer with a firmer expression.
“I know how drunken tears look, these aren’t them.“
Then as if knowing how sensitive I could get even more he lowers his voice, voice softening.
“What’s wro—“
“I’m in love.”
A beat of silence follows. It’s as silent as it gets with the music pumping around you but the hollowness in your ears is deafening.
The expression on his face is too.
His mouth opens, then closes as he tilts his head.
“You what?”
You don’t take a breath— you know you’ll break down and won’t be able to utter a word if you do.
“In love..”
He waits for you to crack up with “gotcha, Deanie!” but it doesn’t come.
Is this the time familiar becomes unfamiliar? Because his eyes are the same, his lips are the same, the hair’s the same but you feel that once you say it, all of it won’t be. Yet you open your mouth.
“I love—“
You can’t. It just doesn’t leave your mouth. Even if you try hard enough because no amount of booze is enough to make the fear of losing him make you speak.
“Who?”
A loud crack interrupts them.
You turn to see Dexter raise his hands in a surrender at the broken glass at his feet.
Broken bottle’s shards lie around— and that is to be expected at a party with such an amount of alcohol. Yet it’s the sight of Logan stepping around it quickly with the very promised glass of not sweet water in hand, avoiding the shards. He quickly places the glass on the counter and tells something that makes others step away before crouching to pick up the big pieces of broken glass.
Just like your heart, was it?
All this time though Dean didn’t turn away.
Too busy watching you.
And finally it dawns on him..
“Him?”
No—
He turns his head to do a double take at Logan who’s already handling it like a pro not to let anyone cut themselves in a drunken haze.
So you do what doesn’t cut you.
“...Yeah.”