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Late Night Drinking

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It was getting late, and bottles of vodka and carrot juice were littered across the table in our kitchen.

 

Looking at Putin, it was quite obvious that he was intoxicated, and I knew that usually meant lots of dancing and awkward questions. I could feel some heat on my face, but I could hold my drinks pretty well, unlike my former cellmate over here.

 

“Kirenenko, you have such big eyes,” Putin says to me, slurring the compliment. He smiles at me, and I tighten my grip on my shot glass. Maybe I was a little more drunk than I had originally thought.

 

I just burp in response; what else am I supposed to say to that? He looks at me with round, mesmerized eyes, and my face feels admittedly a little warmer.

 

“Do you get along with your brother?” he asks out of the blue, inching closer. Honestly, I had forgotten all about my twin. This guy remembers everything.

 

I nod, downing my shot. The burn was there, but nothing like swallowing a missile.

 

Putin looks away, then locks eyes back with me.

 

“Do we get along?” he then asks, his face even redder somehow.

 

I freeze. I mean, I’d never really thought about it. It’s not like we fight, really, and we’ve been together for quite a while. I glare at Putin, because he’s really making me think over here.

 

“Yup,” I voice, pouring both he and I another shot. Hopefully we can both just forget this night in the morning.

 

Putin stands up after I reply to him, and as I foretold, the dancing was already happening. He waltzes over to me, and, get this - grabs my hand.

 

I immediately snatch it back and give him a look, but his face falls, and his eyes look watery, and I instantly feel like a bad person.

 

I tentatively place my hand back in his, and he ushers me to my feet. He puts my hands on his waist and wraps one arm around my neck and leads me in one of his drunken two-steps, his smile back and brighter than ever.

 

We are so close to each other that it is almost suffocating. He smells like alcohol and car oil, and also kind of like my favorite braised carrot dish. I’m almost enjoying this dance, because it’s been so long since we’ve had a place that we could really do whatever we want in.

 

Putin’s dumb robot and Putin’s dumb frog and bird are sound asleep in the other room of our apartment, and I think I might have some policemen tied up somewhere… but right now, it just feels like me and Putin. Except we aren’t incarcerated; we’re free and drunk and dancing.

 

If my brother ever saw this, he would probably try to take his piece of his head back. He should understand, though; Putin is cute when he’s drunk.

 

The dancing was evidently becoming too much for him, though. Putin looks more flushed than ever, and his steps are becoming unsteady. I grasp his waist more firmly to steady him, and he nearly falls onto me.

 

I can feel myself getting angry, and he looks at me with terrified eyes.

 

“S-Sorry!” he stammers, unwrapping himself from my grip, but I’m mad now, and I pull him back in.

 

“Kirenenko?” he asks, his eyes boring into mine in the most infuriating way. The alcohol must be really getting to me.

 

He’s cute, I think. He’s right here, in my arms. So, naturally, I close my eyes and press my mouth against Putin’s, and am pleasantly surprised by how sweet he tastes.

 

He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. We’re not dancing anymore, but I don’t care; I pull him in closer and deepen the kiss, and his arms find their way back around my neck.

 

We’re not close enough, and I start to get agitated. I want him closer, want to taste him even more; this moment is sickeningly overdue, and I vaguely wonder how long I’ve had these feelings.

 

Of course, it’s hard to think of much else when there’s a new sneaker style out, anyway.

 

Putin can tell I’m getting angry and breaks the kiss, looking at me with his usual look of terror. I’m starting to lose my cool over here, and it’s pretty apparent on my face.

 

“Are you mad at me?” he manages to ask, and I’m trying to slow down the gears in my head.

 

“No,” I say simply, wanting that look of fear to leave his face. Scared doesn’t go well with drunk, and especially not for Putin.

 

I’m calm now, but he looks skeptical.

 

He hesitates, averting his gaze from me just like earlier at the table. I know what he wants to ask, and I only sort of want to give him the answer.

 

Surely Putin knew by now that I didn’t like to talk much.

 

“I’m not angry,” I continue, pulling the beige rabbit back in against my chest, his face only centimeters from mine. “But I will be if we don’t kiss again.”

 

Shit. Putin probably wasn’t drunk enough to forget about that tomorrow, but with his lips against mine again, I think I’ll be able to live with that.

 

We kiss standing up for quite some time until my legs get tired and my heart restless, and we move to the couch we had taken from Zrzolov’s old bando.

 

Putin seems much more desperate than earlier; his fingers are digging into my back, and we haven’t broken apart to breathe since I pushed him onto the couch.

 

My face temperature must be at max by now, because I feel elated. It’s something akin to being furious, but even harder to control; my hands are roaming, and when they slip underneath the fabric of Putin’s shirt, he finally tenses at my touch.

 

We break apart again, and I do my best to hear him out and not get mad.

 

“You and I are drunk,” he says, stating the obvious. I can feel my brow furrow.

 

Putin raises his eyebrows, running his hands up and down my back, and it helps calm me down.

 

“I-I just don’t want you to regret any of this in the morning,” he continues, slurring and stammering through his sentence. “You probably aren’t thinking clearly.”

 

I’m trying to heavily concentrate on the feeling of Putin’s body underneath mine, because otherwise, my frustration might get the best of me.

 

“Neither are you,” I return, coming back at him with his own logic. Putin’s face, already red from all the kissing, darkens a shade.

 

“I’ve thought about this for a while,” he replies, shifting nervously beneath me. I am pretty much ready to enter beast mode at this point.

 

Putin had thought about himself and me together? Putin had thought about kissing me? A million questions were swimming around in my head, and I absent mindedly swipe my thumb across his bottom lip, wanting to remember how soft they were.

 

“No more questions,” I grumble, and I place a painfully gentle kiss to his nose, but he still looks worried. God, why does he look so worried?

 

I groan. I hold him even tighter, impossibly tight, against me. He’s warm, but I fear I’m even warmer.

 

“I want this,” I finish with, low and guttural, almost a roar. I’m upset, and he knows, but it’s not the usual rage; it’s frustration.

 

He hugs me back and presses his forehead to mine. The contact is soothing, but once again, it’s not enough.

 

I lean down and lock our lips once again; his fingers are back in my back, where they belong, and my hands experimentally slip under his t-shirt once again. I hold my breath, and he kisses me harder.

 

His fur was so soft underneath his shirt, even softer than the rest of him somehow. I want to feel him all over, and there was just so much fabric all over him.

 

I rip his shirt off and he looks concerned, but not from fear. His pupils are dark, and he tugs at the bottom of my tank as well. I nod knowingly and peel it off.

 

We lay on that couch together, making out, clothes disheveled, for a good portion of the night. Eventually, the alcohol gets to Putin, and he starts snoring as I’m kissing his neck.

 

My first instinct is to pull him off the couch like a madman, but I’m tired as well.

 

I pull him up to a sitting position, and he stirs, looking at me with a frown.

 

I stand up and he just keeps staring.

 

“What?” I ask, grabbing my tank top from the floor. I don’t bother putting it back on.

 

He suddenly notices his own lack of clothing and blushes.

 

“Will we do this again?” he asks in a very sleepy but timid voice. My heart flutters in my chest.

 

“We’ll drink,” I answer, grabbing Putin’s arm; I pull him up, face to face with me again.

 

“I mean, will we continue tonight?” he questions in a braver voice than I had expected.

 

My arms move against my will, seemingly, and I wrap them back around Putin and pull him against me, and he is still so warm.

 

“Yes,” I answer, almost melting at how tired and soft he is in my arms, all his previous tenseness and nervousness gone. I wonder how I must feel to hug for him; I’m half tempted to ask, but he looks so sleepy.

 

“Sleep,” I then say, taking his hand in mine and dragging him to the bedroom.

 

I thought about carrying him, but the amount of cliches I’ve completed tonight are already through the rough. Also, I may be a bit too drunk to trust myself with that.

 

I could have put him in his bed and gone to clean up the drinks and glasses, but that’s always Putin’s job. That doesn’t change because of tonight. So, I just put him in his bed and climbed in with him.

 

I sleep unusually well considering the amount of room that drunk mechanic takes up.

 

When the sun filters in from the bedroom window and onto my shut eyes, I realize I’m awake and it’s the next morning, and I have a pounding in one side of my head.

 

I immediately turn to where Putin was previously sleeping beside me; he isn’t there. Suddenly, I’m tense. He must have woken up first, probably with an even worse hangover.

 

What was he thinking? Did he not want to be around me after last night? This feeling in my chest would not subside.

 

While the emotion I am feeling makes me angry, I recognize it for what it is - worry.

 

Groaning to myself, I force myself to sit up and get out of the bed. I snap the blinds shut and trudge to the door, my brow furrowed.

 

When I step into the kitchen, I see Mechanenko reading my newest sneaker magazine. Not a good start to the day.

 

I snatch it away. There’s some oil on it from his grubby robot fingers. Unforgivable.

 

I’m about to knock the thing’s circuits out before I hear a very tired, but very happy voice say, “Good morning, Kirenenko.”

 

I snap my neck to the left to see Putin, who’s making pancakes with half-lidded eyes. A wave of relief crashes over me.

 

“Morn,” I reply, and awkwardly amble over to him. He seems sort of tense, as though he’s also unsure of how I’m feeling.

 

An awkward silence ensues. It takes about all I can to not get agitated or walk away- I want to talk to him.

 

“Putin,” I begin, taking a step closer. He looks surprised.

 

He looks at me with hopeful eyes, and I tentatively wrap my arms around him again, pulling his drowsy frame in against my chest.

 

“We’re continuing last night,” I say, burying my head into his neck; he doesn’t pull away, and I feel so reassured.

 

“Right now!?” he gasps, but I pull him away from the stovetop and head for our bedroom, flared up and ready to go.

 

We have our first sober kiss in the hallway, and I’m sure ours is a story to be continued.