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It’s not to say that this night has exactly been shit so far: the music is nice, the temperature is bearable, which is about the best it can be in a nightclub, his drink is cold, the countertop isn’t too sticky… It’s been nice. It’s just that he’d been hoping for a little more company, eventually, but no one has struck him so far and, well, evidently, he hasn’t struck anyone either.
Maybe his make-up is wrong? He did do it in a bit of a hurry. After that damned half-hour-long phone call starting at the last minute of his shift, it felt like he really needed to be as quick as possible in finding a place to drown himself in too loud techno, sweaty humans, and a few Jack and Coke, as one does when in need of resetting their brain.
He couldn’t have completely forgone making himself at least a little pretty, because the whole point of the operation was also, hopefully, to fuck, or at the very least make out with a hard-on in a shitty bathroom, and, well, he couldn’t really count on any kind of dancing skills for that, so his look had to be some level of appealing if he wanted to get anywhere.
The thought of checking and maybe fixing his face in the toilets when he’s done with his current drink does cross his mind for a moment, but he knows if there isn’t anyone sitting next to him by the end of it, the next step will actually be to go home. It’s his third glass already, and he made a rule of never starting a fourth alone on the basis that if he didn’t manage to pick up anyone on the course of the three first ones, he wouldn’t be able to do so properly wasted either and that he can’t (has, but shouldn’t) play the Russian roulette of “hook up or get trashed” at every one of his nights out.
The drink is eventually finished when he comes up to terms with the fact that staring at the last tiny sip at the bottom of it for an extended amount of time in the hope that someone will miraculously find him fuckable all of a sudden is more pathetic than going home alone.
Next to him, a hot blond girl in a crop top, forehead sweaty and a little out of breath, from dancing, presumably, jumps to the countertop, rising on the tip of her toes to wave at one of the very clearly overloaded bartenders.
The good thing with rules though, is that they can always be cheated.
“Hey!” he says once, and then shouts a second time upon remembering how fucking inconvenient it is to talk to anyone in that sort of acoustic environment.
“Hi!”
Her high ponytail swings around as she turns to face him with a smile bright enough to lighten his entire night. Taking a closer look, her features are quite thin and delicate, but there’s something tonic and chiselled in her silhouette that makes him think that, even being at least 20 centimetres shorter than him, she would definitely beat his ass in a race (easy) and maybe at arm wrestling (harder), but that’s not really the kind of thing that can scare him away, on the contrary.
“Can I pay for that?” he asks, pointing at the cocktail coming her way.
She winces and for a moment he thinks this might be the final blow to his semi-miserable attempt at keeping his dying night going, but it eventually turns out to be more of a “Little weird but okay.” face than an “Ew, no.” face.
“Sure!”
He takes the time to order his now fully authorised fourth drink before slipping a bill to the waiter with a sign to indicate he can keep the change.
“I’m gonna get a smoke outside, wanna join me?” he asks, as much to get somewhere calmer and a bit more suitable to an actual chat as from the actual need for nicotine. He’s kind of been meaning to quit, but, well, it’s something of a hassle, and his current slower consumption feels like a fairly acceptable middle-ground for now.
“Yeah, sure!”
---
The first puff escapes his lips slowly, languishing in the too still air. The night is hot and windless, barely more breathable here than inside the club (though the fact that it’s the smoking area is probably not helping).
“Sorry, I hope the smell doesn’t bother you too much,” he apologises to his kind-of-guest while trying to and mostly failing at letting the smoke out in the opposite direction.
She waves the concern away.
“It’s alright. My best friend’s a big smoker, I’m used to it. But thanks for the concern.”
“Of course. Poisoning myself is fine- well, not fine I guess, but I’m allowed to do that, others… I try not to. What’s your name?”
She hastily swallows a sip of her drink before answering.
“Ino. Yours?”
“Kankurou.”
She cocks an eyebrow.
“Classy.”
He shrugs.
“My father was a theatre fan.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah, but I hope not in an as shitty and elitist way as he was,” he adds with a chuckle.
Silence settles for a moment, and it’s not heavy, not yet, but he knows that it will become if the conversation doesn’t really get started before both of them are out of drinks and cigarettes to keep their hands busy with. Maybe it’s been a mistake. Maybe he should have given up on a fourth drink and gone home.
“I’m not hitting on you,” he says eventually because it feels respectful to lay that down.
If that was what she was looking for she probably would have succeeded much earlier in the night, and if it’s not, and he believes it’s not, he doesn’t want her to spend their discussion second-guessing his every move making sure that’s not what’s happening.
At first, he mistakes her reaction for one of surprise but ultimately realises it’s actually one of offence when she ends up asking if she’s not pretty enough for him.
“What? No, of course not, you’re gorgeous. Frankly, I’m not even sure why you would ask me that when I’m fairly confident you know it already,” he argues back while turning around to crush his stub in a nearby ashtray and she nods in acknowledgement before waving her drink at him.
“Okay. I like you. Go on.”
“There’s nothing to go on about, I’m just gay.”
She lets out a loud cackle at the answer, one that would probably have him clench his jaw coming from anyone else in any other circumstances, but, somehow, she manages to make it clear how none of the irony in it is actually aimed at him.
“Nice. Me too.”
Well, that explains it, presumably.
“Why’d you buy me a drink then?” she asks after having taken another sip of her cocktail and for a moment the idea of getting back in to get himself another glass itches.
He knows it probably wouldn’t do him any good, but it’s not exactly ever been motivating enough not to drink. It would be rude though (and probably a little pathetic but, again, that wouldn’t be enough on its own), and this at least is something he cares enough about to act on.
“I don’t know,” he eventually answers.
It’s only half a lie. It’s not like he’s precisely in the habit of treating girls in nightclubs.
“I guess I’m just that nice,” he adds with a smirk that earns him a nudge into his rib, confirming in passing his suspicion that Ino could very much break him if she wanted to.
“I was a bit tired of drinking alone,” he admits after a moment. “And you were there and, well, you looked like good company.”
She smiles again, and again it makes something ease and melt in his chest. It’s very different, in some ways, from whatever happens to him with men. There’s no desire to it, but, more than that, there’s not even any kind of point, hope or expectation. He’s not trying to get anywhere or do anything, it’s just- comforting.
“And am I living up to the expectation?”
He blinks, hoping he’s not been staring weirdly for too long. In moments like that, he’s glad cocky smiles are something he’s practised enough over the years to summon whenever needed.
“Yeah, I think so. Why’d you accept the drink?”
Hopefully, the answer won’t be, “You looked sad and like no one else had accepted the proposition so far.”
“It was a free drink.”
Well, that’s as good as it gets.
“Can’t argue with that,” he admits with a nod and a chuckle and she laughs softly before the atmosphere falls somewhat silent again.
The other group crowding the area when they got there has gone back to the club, leaving only to break the calm of the night the mildly distant music and chatter coming through the door and the intermittent traffic noise from the road outside of the courtyard.
“You gonna get back in?” he asks after a while without really knowing what answer he hopes for.
“Not sure.” She pauses. “I’ve been at it for a while, I guess I should probably get home after this one,” she adds, raising her glass.
It’s still almost a third full when his has been downed and discarded at least ten minutes ago already. Shit.
“You?”
He raises his eyes back to hers, blue, bright and shining from the reflection of a nearby lamppost
“Me? Oh, I should have gotten home before this one,” he answers with a chuckle. “You need a cab?”
“Are you offering to pay?”
“I don’t know, do you need me to?”
The question is sincere, though maybe a little clingy in hindsight, but the only answer he gets is a loud burst of laughter.
“Is it something you often do, spending all your money on treating girls because you’re sad you didn’t manage to make out with boys?”
Ouch. Rude.
“First of all, I’m too drunk to be attacked like that or have this discussion at all. Second of all, no it’s not, but frankly, I could get used to it, I’ve had worse nights.”
He pushes himself off the wall he’d been leaning against in an attempt to summon the will to eventually leave the place and go back to his too-small and too-empty apartment to sleep off the night’s failure, but finds his legs wobblier than anticipated.
Ino’s hand on his shoulder is too hot but not entirely unwelcome.
“Wow, do you need a cab?”
He laughs.
“Oh yeah for sure. Never intended on leaving any other way.”
To his surprise (and despair) the face he gets in reaction has very little amusement in it and a way too strong “That’s just sad.” vibe. Maybe he should have chosen someone less perceptive as a makeshift drinking buddy. But then again, someone that wouldn’t indulge his bullshit is probably the best thing that could happen to him.
She pats his shoulder with a disapproving but some level of smiling pout.
“Okay, let’s get you home big guy.”
---
“Wait until you’re in bed to pass out at least, your back will thank you for it,” Ino says with a shake at his shoulder as he starts dozing off on a bench near the club’s exit.
“Come on, I’m not that drunk,” he argues, and it’s true.
He’s got enough experience by now to keep up with way more alcohol than that in his system. That being said, it’s also true that he’s starting to remember why the three-drink rule exists and what the fourth makes him feel like. (Tired. Dizzy. Sad.) It’s not that bad tonight though. Not with Ino around. Not yet. He also knows he’ll have forgotten that valuable lesson again the next time around.
“Gimme your number,” she says while opening her phone and it doesn’t even sound like a question.
“What?”
“Your phone number. Just so I can make sure you made it out okay.”
He turns around to give her an ironic smile.
“Very considerate, though a little humiliating I must say, but, again, I’m not that drunk. And I’m not nineteen anymore.”
“Sure, whatever you say. Too bad I won’t be able to give you Shikamaru’s,” she adds, tapping away on her phone without giving him a single look, and he hates that it works so well on him.
“Who’s that.”
If he was a little soberer and a little less eager to get an answer, he would probably cringe at how quick his answer was, but he’s not.
“My best friend. The one that smokes. I just think you’re kind of his type and both of you look like you could use a good fuck.”
“What’s his type?”
“Sad and a little pathetic?”
She rolls her eyes at his silence before her expression softens.
“I’m joking. You’re chill, and pretty, and not too bothersome, is all. And nice to his best friend, so, that must count for something.” She frowns. “Also, your chest looks very comfortable somehow?”
“Oh, it is,” he confirms, patting his pocket to get his phone out. “Here, send yourself a text.”
She snatches it out of his fingers.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Sadly, I can’t do that because it’s my main if not only personality trait.”
She puts the phone back in his hands with a slap to the shoulder.
“Don’t sell yourself short, buddy, you’ve got plenty of self-depreciation too!”
He nods with a half-assed smile through somewhat numbed lips.
“True. I’m full of so many qualities. I’m gonna woo your best friend so easily.”
Maybe she would have attempted a snarkier comeback if his cab hadn’t come to stop before them at that moment. Maybe not. Either way her pitiful “Yeah, you sure will.” is once again a headshot.
“Okay, that’s my cue,” he says when he’s done squinting from the headlights digging into his eyes, getting up with a grunt (and a heavy hand on the backrest of the bench because he may not be that drunk, but he is still too drunk).
It’s weird, finding himself pulled into her arms for a hug, not because of the action in itself (though he must admit it’s not that often that he gets hugged) (but it is nice), but because with all the thirty kilos he probably weighs more than her, she feels immensely more grounded and stronger than him.
“I was happy to spend that night with you, Ino,” he comments when they part with sincerity he’s not all too used to hearing in his own voice.
“Me too.” She sighs. “Be safe.”
Like clockwork when faced with any level of emotional vulnerability, his signature half-sarcastic half-over confident grin is back in place.
“Always.”
He’s met with a dubitative pout. And to say she’s only known him for an hour.
“Anyway, text Shikamaru.” She points an accusative finger at him. “Sober. I’ll see you around.”
He nods.
“I will. Good night, Ino.”
“Good night, Kankurou.”