terrible things - ashton irwin

thirty six

We played Motown in the car-David Bowie, Stevie Wonder-as we drove downtown. Ashton hummed and tapped his fingers on the dash, following the drumbeats and adding little flourishes of his own. Having being a drummer, since he got his first kit on his eighth birthday, he was really good at this game, me on the other hand...

We found a restaurant full of Christmas lights and orange velvet banquettes, its walls hung with funky instruments and dozens of black-and-white pictures of Detroit in its old-timey heyday. Someone was playing the piano in the corner, loudly, and the place was packed.

"It's like a speakeasy crossed with a TGI Fridays," I said as we sat down.

"Or, like, if Liberace were a gangster and this was his living room."

"Or it's the hangout of a pimp who likes jazz and antiques," I said

Ashton grinned. "It's awesome."

We found a table in the corner, and the waiter came by and set two small glasses full of clear liquid on the table.

"Hungarian moonshine," he said, by way of greeting. "It's Ed's birthday." 

He seemed to think we should know who Ed was.

"I'll be back to take your order in a minute."

Ashton and I looked at the glasses and then at each other.

"Should we?" I asked.

He pretended to look disappointed. "I have so many fake IDs I really wanted the chance to use another one."

We held up the glasses and clinked them together. 

"Sláinte," I said. 

"Slan-cha?" Ashton said, frowning. "I've heard that before...what does it mean?"

I shrugged. "Dunno. It's just some old Irish toast." But of course I knew exactly what it meant. It meant "health." Because didn't that matter more than just about anything these days?

We knocked out glasses back, and the liquid burned down my throat, making me shudder.

"Is that what radiator fluid tastes like?"

Ashton was sloshing it around in his mouth. Then he swallowed. "This i more like rubbing alcohol, I'd say."

I could feel it in my stomach now, warning me. Was it possible that I felt looser, almost light-headed already? 

"Funny how a tiny little shot makes me feel so rebellious, when I'm already a car thief."

"I believe your term was borrower," Ashton noted.

"Because that's going to go over really well with the judge," I said. "Oh, you were only borrowing the porshe? No problem then! "

"You guys aren't from around here, are you?"

Ashton and I both looked up, startled. Guilty people are jumpy people, I guess. But it was only our waiter, who looked like he'd had a shot or two of the moonshine himself.

"No, sir," Ashton said, polite as he can be.

The waiter pointed a finger at us. "Well, when you go back home, tell your friends how the Big D is doing just fine. I know you went and saw the closed-up factories; everybody does. But don't remember just the dead stuff. Remember this." He waved his arm around the happy, noisy room. "Remember the music and the moonshine. Is that a deal?"

Ashton and I nodded in a tandem, and the waiter nodded back satisfied. "Be back in a minute for that order."

When he left again, Ashton reached for my hand. "He's right, You have to remember the good stuff, Lav."

There was something about the way he said it that made a chill crawl up my spine. Like he was talking about much more then just Detroit. But I smiled and shook his hand anyway.

"It's a deal. Scout's honor," I said. "Pinkie swear. Blah blah blah."

Ashton smiled. "You really are beautiful, you know that?" he said.

I looked at the tabletop, but he reached out and tucked a finger under my chin, tipping my face up so I had to look right into his perfect hazel eyes.

"I mean it. Someone should tell you that every single day of your life. And right now, it gets to be me."

"It's always going to be you," I whispered.

He smiled again. "Get over here."

I went around to his side of the booth, and I sat down in his lap. It surprised both of us.

"Lavender Moore," he said, his voice soft and throaty. He ran a fingertip along my collar bone. "I never took you for the PDA type."

I shivered under his touch and pressed my forehead to his. When I spoke, our lips were tantalisingly close. "I'm learning how to live dangerously," I said.

He moved a fraction of an inch closer, so his lips almost brushed mine. "And what do you think of it?" he whispered.

I could almost taste him, and I held out for another long delicious moment before finally pressing my mouth against his. Pushing  my fingers into the tangle of his curls. We kissed, and warmth flooded my body.

"I like it," I whispered. "A lot."

I was nearly dizzy. So this is what being intoxicated feels like. But if it wasn't from the shot I'd taken.

I am here to say that moonshine has nothing on love-and lust.

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word count - 851

xxx