How to Win Friends and Influence People
Based, stupidly, on this post which I saw and thought "Nickycore", so have a silly AU. Uni AU? Or just house party AU? Who knows!
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Joe is quite drunk.
Not very drunk, not just yet, but he’s on the way there. He’s sure his mother would have some choice words for him, and his father too, and he won’t even consider thinking about what his grandfather might say, but they’re on another continent right now and what they know can’t hurt them. Ignorance is bliss, and if he does accidentally send something to Nour, well, she won’t tattle.
Nevertheless, he’s still quite drunk. Drunker than he ever really has been, and this is a terribly boring party because everyone he’s flirted with so far has been straight, although it’s nice that no one has picked a fight about it. They’ve all let him down gently, which has left him both pleasantly surprised and slightly weirded out.
He wanders into the kitchen for another drink, and it’s oddly warm despite all the doors being open, because it’s a party and people drift in and out all the time. He peers over the kitchen island, one eyebrow raised, and gets a faceful of heat from the open oven, and also a rather nice view of a crouching man peering up at him.
“Hey,” he says.
The man nods in reply, and pulls something out of the oven, straightening up to set it on the counter. Joe stares at it.
“What’s that?” he asks, because he can’t quite believe it even though he can see it right in front of his eyes.
“Lasagne,” says the man, who has very striking features Joe is instantly captivated by. It’s a face that wouldn’t look amiss on a marble statue, and Joe’s hands itch to paint it. He tries to be suave, but he fails, because he’s instantly grinning like a dope and forgets to be shocked at the presence of a large tray of homemade lasagne at a party of very drunk people.
And then the man disappears again, leaving Joe staring into space. He then reappears with another tray.
“Two?!” Joe exclaims, stunned. The man shrugs.
“One is vegetarian,” he says, pointing to the one he just got out. He has an accent, a very entrancing one, and a gravelly voice that seems to come from deep down inside. Joe’s knees might go a little weak, he isn’t sure and he wouldn’t admit it even if he was, so he uses the island to prop himself up. The absurdity of the presence of two lasagne is no longer worthy of comment.
“Could you set out some plates?” the man asks, pointing at a stack of paper plates with a metal spatula. Joe blinks, looks at the plates, and then scrambles to do as he’s told. He’s exchanged about six sentences with the man and already he’s doing his bidding – Joe is so weak, and he doesn’t even care.
Once the dishes are plated – meat and vegetarian rigorously kept separate – the man picks up two servings and heads out into the throng. Joe spots him talking to Nile, the host, and offers her a plate and a fork. She blinks, swaying slightly, and then beams.
One by one, the plates of lasagne vanish, each given to a puzzled but enthusiastic drunk person. Eventually only one is left. Joe eyes it, wondering if…
“Yours, if you want it,” the man says. Joe still hasn’t asked his name, he really should, but as he looks into the man’s eyes what comes out is…
“Can I get your number?”
His heart is pounding. His fingers are wringing the bottle in his hands, and he feels like he might melt into nothing if the man doesn’t say yes.
The man blinks, then ducks his head with a small smile.
“Try the lasagne, first,” he says. Once again, Joe does as he’s told.
It’s cooled quite a bit after sitting out on a paper plate in a rapidly-chilling kitchen, but that doesn’t matter, not when it’s this delicious. Joe closes his eyes and makes a noise he’s pretty sure is indecent. He’d always assumed Italian food would be terribly bland – there never seem to be that many seasonings in any of the recipes he’s seen – but it’s not. It’s comforting, the cheese is melted to perfection, the tomato fresh and feisty… he could eat buckets of it.
He opens his eyes again and starts shovelling it down. The man chuckles and looks somewhat proud of himself, arms folded across his chest as he leans against the sink. Ya Allah, his shoulders are broad.
“Good?” he asks.
Joe whimpers.
About halfway through he stops, and remembers he should have asked if it’s halal. Oops. He clears his throat.
“Um, there’s no, uh… pork in this, is there?” He points at it with his fork, feeling somewhat ashamed, and well aware he’s closing the barn door after the horse has bolted. He’s already wolfed down half of it.
The man shakes his head. “No, don’t worry.”
Joe perks up at that and finishes it with gusto, even licking the fork. He can’t remember the last time he ate something so fast, or so happily. He does notice that he feels slightly less drunk than before, and with the clarity of a newly-full belly, his cheeks flush dark. He’s made a bit of an ass of himself, hasn’t he?
“Oh, uh…”
The man raises his eyebrows expectantly, and though his expressions are all somewhat mild, they’re easy to read. Joe clears his throat, suddenly beyond sheepish. Tentatively, struggling to meet the man’s eyes, he holds out his hand.
“Joe,” he says.
The man smiles, and he takes Joe’s hand in a large, confident grip that might have Joe’s head spinning a little.
“Nicky,” he says in that smoky accent. “And I think you wanted my number?”
Joe grins at that, his mood flipping like a switch. “I can have it?”
Nicky’s smile widens, though he dips his head, almost coy. “Only if next time, you cook.”
“Deal,” Joe says, handing Nicky his phone.
