Only If For a Night(MxM)

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.

TRIGGER WARNING FOR HOMOPHOBIA AND SLURS!!!
You were warned.

Four years had come and passed since the last time he had stepped foot in a bar with the intent of drinking. He had been avoiding alcohol like a lousy haircut since he had come home. He had seen too many good men fall victim to the bottle or the needle to make him even want to pick up a glass.

Friends from the marines had called him up and invited him to a bar after work, and he had no other excuse not to go other than he simply didn't want to.

So he found himself in an unreasonably loud room that reeked off sour beer and cleaning supplies. He didn't want a beer thrust into his hand; he wanted his own bed and the promise of dreamless sleep.

For hours, Jet, Jim, Monty, Joseph, and Warren sat at that stinking bar and shared stories. None of the tales were particularly incredible; all were embellished and containing far more cussing than was necessary. It was nice to catch up with friends, but not when sleep was calling like it was.

"Do you remember that time," Jim hiccuped, four beers and three rounds of tequila in, they were all standing firmly in the belly of the beast. "That time that Juarez made out with that tranny hooker before we went to basic trainin'?"

"What does that have to do with anythin'?" Jet spluttered on his beer.

"My God, that was hilarious," Jim joked, and the rest of them roared loud enough to have the people at the bar across the room glance at them.

"We should have warned you that you were making out with a faggot, but it was just too god damn funny at the time," Warren barked out a laugh.

The word bit Jet with teeth he had never felt before. He felt himself flinch before he could still himself. It wasn't a direct attack; it was used too flippantly, without thought. It pulled at the loose threads of Jet's already worn patience.

"Why are you bringing that up?" Jet deflected, throwing sharp glances at his friends.

"Because we're worried 'bout you, Jet. We wanna see you happy," Monty replied, sucking back the rest of his shot in record time.

"And reminding me of that night will do that, how?"

"Well, you never told us if you brought him home or not," Monty grinned, a bit too feral to be joking.

"Don't try and tell me," Warren grunted, pointer finger shaking at him, "That finding you a good lay doesn't make you feel better. Guy or not,"

Though tequila was making the lights a bit fuzzier and his laughter louder than he could control, he was still well enough aware to tell that this was no longer funny.

"Is this all you think about? Sex?" He snapped back, the alcohol making his words sharper than sober Jet would have used to diffuse the situation.

"What? Did you bring him back to your place?" he bit back, eyes wide.

"No, I did not," His lip curled up and over his teeth. His hackles raised, and he was panicking at the thought of them finding out why. No one else had been in that garage the night before he had left four years ago, but the wild fear that someone knew ate him.

"Boys," Joseph interjected, gently patting both of their hands "This is a night for fun and catching up, not fighting. Warren, no one wants to listen to you be a bastard, and Jet, just because you won't tell us that you fucked a faggot doesn't mean we still don't love you," He kept the tone light, and it worked. Warren grumbled and plopped back down in his chair.

Jet felt his shoulders hit the back of his chair as he looked at his friends for who they were for the first time in a decade. He didn't remember them being so old and fallible. When they were young, the five of them were gods of the Bronx, and nothing could stop them. They were going to fight in a war, and they were going to make a difference; they were going to chase tail all around the world, and no one was ever going to beat them.

Now, they were old. Jet was the youngest in the group by only a year, and he hoped to god he didn't look like them. Their faces were lined with nightmares, and their bravado was an act that was all too easy to see through when you know what you're looking for. Three were married, all failing marriages. PTSD was a cruel mistress. Jet couldn't judge their experiences, but he could judge their coping methods.

He slammed the last tequila shot; he didn't know how many this made. Ten? Thirteen? It didn't matter.

"I can't believe I took off work for this," He mumbled loudly, rising from the table.

"Hey, where are you going?" Monty called out.

"To find better friends," He said over his shoulder, making his way to the door.

They called back, hollow apologies and tried to get him to come back to the table, but it didn't work. He was shaking now; it wasn't stopping. He needed to leave the bar.

Thank god for taxis.

~0~

"Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?"

"SHHH," Jet hissed, swatting his hand in the general vicinity of Zuko.

"Does your head hurt?"

"Your voice hurts," he grunted, wobbling to the counter and scrabbling at the coffee pot. "Light hurts, breathing hurts, thinking is like being shot in the head with a nail gun."

Zuko crossed his arms; an amused eyebrow arched as he watched the bodyguard rest his face against the countertop and let out a hollow bellow, cursing the universe in mumbled Spanish.

"What doesn't hurt?"

"Coffee."

Sliding up onto the counter next to him, Zuko sipped his tea, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "What did you drink last night? Battery acid?"

"Worse. Tequila. A gallon of it."

"Why the hell did you think that was a good idea?" he asked. Though Jet's face was half smushed against the marble countertop, he still managed to smirk up at him.

"Because I am a competitive creature. You should know this. My friends challenged me to a drinking game, and I thought I could do it like I used to. Oh god, I was wrong. I was so, deeply wrong"

"I have no pity for you," Zuko mused. He wasn't a fan of drinking. Too much room for bad decisions and he made enough of those sober.

"Don't have pity on me. I'm a coward," he whispered to the marble under his face. Shame gnawed at the pit of his stomach, angry and awake. He felt the burning need not only to throw up, but to apologize to Zuko. Though he hadn't done anything wrong, per se, it ached in his gut all the same. He wondered how many times casual slurs left his lips like they had with his friends last night, lips that had kissed the person in front of him.

"How are you going to drive? You can't even stand up straight," Zuko prodded his shoulder with a finger. He was enjoying this too much.

"Zuko," He started, not knowing how to continue the sentence. With a boiling hot hand, he ripped off his sunglasses to look at him. The thought of removing his face from this incredibly pleasant marble was nauseating, so he stayed put, looking up at him. Zuko was a lot closer than Jet realized, one of his knees drawn to his chin, not six inches away.

"Yes?" Eyes blinking, not a clue of how guilty Jet felt. He was so innocent at the moment that it hurt. Or maybe it was the tequila.

"I'm sorry I'm such an idiot," he said meekly, a weak smile spreading across his face. He didn't have the courage to explain why he was an idiot, but he was sure Zuko had a file box of his own reasons.

"Oh, Jet," Zuko smiled, his hand coming down and gently patting Jet's head like he would console a dog. "Good thing you have me, right?" he poked fun.

"Yeah," he grunted, Zuko's fingers drifted through his hair one more time before he collected it back to his lap and drank his tea. "Good thing I have you."

Good thing I have you.