For those of you who are aware of "alive with the Glory of love"'s pending to-be-or-not-to-be completed status, I am still thinking about it, but leaning only slightly more towards to be.
(which is my way of saying, hey, I'm like, sorry it took me almost a year to updates. Whoopsy daisies.)
Warnings: Gratuitous smut for you in this chapter. But to be honest, this was already planned, so, err. Slash. A little tiny bit angst if you squint.
Things I own: nothing. Nothing, absolutely nothing. I own nothing. I know, I suck.
Things I don't own: We are Young, by Fun. But let's pretend Ferb does. Single parents. Magic remedies for drunk people. Slut cousins. Phineas. Ferb. Anyone and Everyone and Everything else mentioned in this story that has anything whatsoever to do with D*sney.
alive with the Glory of love
The moment the reception begins, there is an abundance of drinking.
(and seriously, this wedding's got the good stuff — not the foul tasting beer and cheap vodka he is used to drink at improvised teenage parties, but good Cabernet and Rosé and Cognac and Whisky, oh god, he loves Whisky.)
This is kind of why Ferb decides he could kinda like weddings.
One of the quirks of having a ridiculously sociable father, he concludes, is that everyone just sort of knows him and when, in some cases, you need a good ol' crowd partying around so you will have time to make a little escapade into the lady's room to snog your groom's sister, you end up inviting that guy you sometimes talk to at Wal-Mart's gardening section.
(Or so Ferb thinks is the reason why he is currently wearing a suit he hasn't worn in literally years; the torso is too short, the arms are too tight, the shoulders are too narrow, and they pull the fabric at the back uncomfortably, making him shift awkwardly every now and then as he sits beside Lawrence on their assigned table, chatting about things he couldn't care less about even if he tried with some other old people Ferb pretends he remembers when they come to him and tell him how much he has grown ever since they first saw him four years ago.)
Not that Ferb is one to judge, or anything. He just thinks that when there are going to be tons of happy fun memories you are going to sooner or later want to forget about (especially when, according to the gossipy grown-ups at his table, nobody signed pre-nups), offering plenty of alcohol probably warrantees that all the invited are going to be completely blank, or at least very unsure, of whatever it is that they did or did not witnessed.
Originally, Ferb had been planning ways to avoid the predictably loathsome social event with an excuse that went something along the lines of an important test coming up (because he is that super subtle).
Maybe the small town way of thinking is rubbing off on him, but the thought of sitting in Lawrence's old but cared-for-as-one-would-care-for-a-newborn-baby Camaro, and ride a couple hours to the tri-state area (no way the truck could ever go that far), listening to a retro crap loop cycle from hell courtesy of that station the car's radio was forever condemned to — just to arrive to an unfamiliar city and miss dinner asking for directions to later spend the rest of the night sitting on a table on the corner wondering when the hell where they going to decide it was cake time, was not his first (or seventh, or twenty-fourth) choice to spend his Saturday night.
But then, as he and Lawrence stopped to casually greet Bob what's-his-name from where-was-that-again? while they did their weekly grocery shopping, slash father-and-son bonding time, and Ferb had heard who the bride and groom were going to be, well, let's just say he had a change of heart. People like that more often than not provoke scenes that nobody should miss.
Plus, the drinking.
So with those thoughts in mind did he went through absolutely everything he had previously decided was too obnoxious to go through, three and a half hours in the road, tight suit, old annoying people and all, just for the sake of free entertainment.
(He seriously has to reevaluate his choices in life.)
The wedding, though, with its tacky purple bridesmaid dresses and rehearsed bows went frighteningly smooth.
The reception began and not a speech went by without a slur; there even was a moment when the groom declared his eternal love for his newfound wife, and someone at the back (not Ferb, he swears — as much as he really, really wanted to) snorted loudly.
After that, the night falls into the average wedding settings — people dance and laugh and celebrate love while the bachelors realize how pathetic they are. Ferb, with his eighteen years of awesome living, is right in the point where he isn't young enough anymore to run around playing with the other kids, and isn't old enough yet for the pity party.
If at least he could find a single bridesmaid or female guest that is roughly his age to maybe chat a little or, you know, snog a little, maybe, he'd considered the night not a complete waste, but most of the young ladies sport shiny gold bands in their fingers and the even younger ladies are a little under fifteen, and Ferb just kind of shudders at the disturbing, disturbing thought when one of them smiles as him in what he supposes she considers a flirty way and the amount of metal on her teeth almost blinds him.
He is beginning to feel disoriented.
(But it may have something to do with all the Brandy he's somehow been able to compact into his system.)
Luckily for him, he finds the open bar just right before the disco music starts so the bartender is practically his to use and abuse. That is, of course, until he spots a red-haired boy sitting on one of the stools.
He walks a beeline.
"Aren't you a little young to be drinking," Ferb slurs, making a vague hand gesture with his wine glass. Oh, funny. He hadn't realized he still had the thing in his fingers.
Fun things do forty percent of alcohol by volume do to his brain, he concludes.
Phineas Flynn twirls in his seat with an irritated look on his face.
He looks nothing like Ferb does. Redhead wears a perfectly ironed black suit, white shirt and black tie and all, and his hair looks like he used a lot of hair gel to comb it backwards but now he's run his fingers through it so many times that it has gone back to its usual, dishevelled style. He is holding a neon pink martini glass full of something that looks really girly (seriously), with sugar on the rim, and the glower he is met with throws Ferb really, really off.
He had never before thought Redhead to be capable of such looks, but his intoxicated mind has not enough time to dwell on this thought before for the kid's expression goes from surprise to amusement, the moment he realizes who the hoarse slurred voice belongs to.
He raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little drunk to be drinking?" He asks instead, a lopsided smile plastering on his face carelessly; not at all intimidated by the way Ferb towers over him, his good 6'2 feet doing nothing to wipe the toothy grin out of his face.
He pulls the stool beside Kid and sits, and his back just sort of gives up, so the side of his face ends up colliding with the marble surface of the bar. He asks, "What are you doing here," and he doesn't think his tone is rude or anything, but it must have been because Redhead looks kind of taken aback.
He says, a little shyly, "The bride's my cousin."
Turning on his stool, his face still against the bar, Ferb comments, "Your family's really obnoxious."
Kid, who hasn't finished his neon girly drink, raises an eyebrow at him, pointedly.
Ferb shakes his head against the counter. It is so cold. So comforting. So dirty. Ugh. Adds, as if the explanation was even needed, "The bride is… was—was so inebriated even before the speeches were over… Also, she's a slut. "
Sadly, Ferb is too drunk to realize he is screwing up in a major way, so when Kid stares at him as if to ask, are you serious, before frowning and emptying the remaining of his drink over Ferb's head, it is entirely his fault.
The bartender places an identical drink next to Redhead, and one really has to wonder if he was here to help or not.
"And you are a sober Madonna, I believe." Kid mutters, drinking the refilled glass in a long swig. From his position on the counter, the light reflected on the boy's martini glass shines pink over his neck, making pretty patterns when his Adam's apple bobs as he drinks the last drop. Ferb doesn't know why he notices these little details, but he never does when he is sober so he might as well stop drinking like right. Now.
Not five seconds after that, though, Redhead bites his lip anxiously, blurs out, "God, I'm sorry." and with his sudden change of heart also comes harsh rubbing of a napkin over Ferb's still wet forehead. The drink probably had lots of sugar in it and the tiny grains scratch his skin uncomfortably. He mumbles a muted ow, and Kid blurts again a chirped, "sorry."
"God fucking damnit..." He curses, feeling his skin throb in pain, just a little.
Redhead is playing with a new glass of girly drink over the countertop, but he isn't leaving, which is cool because Ferb doesn't know what else he is going to do if Kid leaves him on his own. He may feel like being an asshole, but he likes the company. It's weird.
"You know," Kid starts, avoiding his gaze, and slightly flushed. He is so weird – now he looks like he is a little embarrassed. "What brings you here." And Ferb wants to laugh because that's the cheesiest line he has heard in, like, eons. At least, that he remembers. It's not like he can trust his memory right now.
"My dad's fucking charisma." He answers, and can't help but grin a little. Its fucking true.
Redhead rolls his eyes, scoffing. "A family trait." He mutters, a little annoyed. Ferb admits he is not the best partner for conversation, but to his credit, he isn't really trying. It's already strange enough that he is out of town in a wedding talking to Phineas Flynn, of all people. Besides, he is drunk. Just for the record.
"I'll drink to that." He slurs, and because he is feeling a little sour for his ruined night, asks, "what brings you here."
Kid gives him a funny look. "The bride's my cousin."
"That's no excuse."
Raising his head from the bar feels like bad idea the moment a wave of nausea hits him, but the bartender is already placing a glass of something red and tick next to his head. It smells like tomato and petroleum, and tastes worst when he takes a sip. Prairie Oyster. Definitely.
He finishes it in a single swig and shudders at the taste.
With his mind a little clearer (probably due to the godawful taste rather than the detoxifying qualities of his drink), he looks up to meet sky blue eyes and a smile that now he can recognize as slightly off its hinges which can only mean one thing – Kid's finally has had one drink too many. Good. His soberness was starting to really annoy Ferb.
Redhead says, "You're chatty." And then he giggles.
Ferb sighs, raising an eyebrow. Decides not to dignify the comment with a proper answer. Just not to be predictable. Or something. Eyes instead the new neon pink drink Kid is about to chug down, snatches it out of his hand, and its awfully sweet taste makes Ferb cringe.
He asks the bartender for a bottle of Rosé. Goes, "drink this." And Kid looks at him for long seconds with questions in his eyes and something else that makes Ferb's stomach knot, not at all unpleasantly, before he obediently does. He ignores the feeling.
Maybe it's just that he can't stand the disco music anymore, or maybe the place is getting stuffy, or hot, or something, but he feels like going someplace less crowded kind of really badly, so he takes Redhead by the wrist and pulls him away from the bar and into the nearest exit.
He's never heard Phineas laugh quite this much.
They're in a long dark hallway outside the party hall, breathing fresh air next to one of the windows, sweaty and breathless and intoxicated – more Redhead than anyone, but Ferb is pretty dizzy himself and he thinks that maybe all that Rosé was a bad, bad idea. Honestly, he does not know what to do with himself – his limbs feel gawky and awkward, now that Phineas is practically in his arms. He is confused, but he isn't sure if that's why his stomach feels so tight.
Ferb is leaning with his back against the window glass, the surface cool and shivery against the back of his neck, his left arm draped carelessly over Redhead's back, holding him upright against him, and he is aware of how this may look to anyone who happens to pass by and look but he is a little afraid that if he lets him go Phineas might not be able to stand on his two feet like a big boy all by himself.
"Better than a rollercoaster, eh." Ferb comments, a little out of the blue.
He can feel his breath, cool over his neck when Phineas drawls, "When I… When I grow up, I want to be a— a rollercoaster engi— engine— engineer. Fuck."
Ferb stares at the ceiling. "For real."
"Yuup," Redhead sing songs, smiling against Ferb's neck. His fingers make a dangerous trail around his waist, before settling on the edge of his dress pants, thumbs pressing over the skin of his waist. Handsy.
He tries not to close his eyes because Phineas' mouth is pressed firmly against the place where his neck meets his jaw and fuck if it doesn't feels good when he chuckles under his breath and his teeth graze his skin, not at all lightly. He manages, "You don't strike me as the rollercoaster engineer kind of chap." But his voice sounds kind of strained. He licks at his lips, and exhales slowly.
Kid laughs, and it's kind of a rich sound. He goes, "You're weird," and then, as an afterthought, barely a whisper mouthed against Ferb's skin, "I like that." But Ferb doesn't have time to argue that because Redhead is kissing his neck with a skill he didn't thought the kid had.
"Hey." He says, his hands stilling against Phineas' sides. He can't help sighing when Phineas bites him a little, (fuck, he likes teeth); can't help closing his eyes a little. "Hey." He says again, and swallows.
Ferb knows what kisses like that mean.
He is not a sober Madonna, after all. He hasn't been above sleeping with drunk girls who were asking for it in the past, but this is not a girl, and this isn't an improvised teenage party either; this is Phineas Flynn practically throwing himself into Ferb's arms, and that is what, in the end, snaps his rational mind into attention. He presses at Redhead's shoulders, firmly.
He laughs, nervously, feeling like rubbing the spot on his neck. He hopes it won't leave a mark.
"Did you know alcohol is supposed to kill your sex drive." He comments, voice a little breathless. Ignoring the way Phineas' hands are pressed firmly against the flushed skin of his back. Anyone else would take it as suggestions. "Let's go back inside."
"Phineas' got zero alcohol tolerance. When we were younger," chick redhead is saying, trying to speak over the sound of the blaring music. "He couldn't even handle Vodka gummy bears. I can't believe you found him throwing up."
Ferb shrugs his shoulders, looking like he couldn't care less. He thinks he's lucky Phineas looks so much like his older sister, or he wouldn't have known what to do with him. Right now he just wants him to be somebody else's problem.
"Thanks, bro." She tells him, but it sounds a little like she's trying to shrug him off. Ferb nods and watches both of the redheads walk away.
He sits on an empty table nearby, because now he's not sure what to do with himself. The napkins are soft and elegant, and they say let's raise a toast, 'cause I've found somebody to carry me home in golden handwriting meant to impress the shit out of whoever sees them.
He takes a pen from his blazer and writes, so if by the time the bar closes, and you feel like falling down, i'll carry you home. tonight, we are young.
He isn't sure where they come from, and it sounds just a little like pretty words put together, but he shoves the napkin in his pocket and hopes he'll figure out soon.
In the end, the inevitable comes and Lawrence tricks him into believing they're going to Wal-Mart, driving instead like a madman until Ferb thinks the devil's come right from hell to possess his father and kill them both in a horrible car accident. It takes Ferb a second or twenty two to uncurl his stiff fists from the car's belt, when he realizes they've parked right before a house he's seen a thousand times but has never really been in.
"How cute," Lawrence's girlfriend beams, the moment he walks past the doorframe, her perfectly manicured hand raising to touch her cheek gracefully.
She is… Cute. A lot shorter than Ferb, and definitely not how he imagined her. She looks like the kind of mum who would let her kids sleep late and build projects in the backyard.
It's hard not to like her.
"My son's in the backyard," She says, once she realizes Ferb is not the talkative type. She doesn't presses him on the issue. "Maybe he can show you around a little, okay, honey?"
Ferb nods and leaves them alone through the kitchen door. He doesn't think he can stand a second more of the middle age flirting. It makes him a little sick to think Lawrence fell out of love so easily.
The sun is already turning the horizon into an inky sunset by the time he reaches the swings, and the boy sitting in them.
"Hey," Ferb says, standing there, glum as ever. "Got room for another person?"
Phineas turns, looking as much in misery as Ferb feels, and sighs. "How serious do you think they are?"
Ferb considers this for long moments, as he swings absently. "Very."
They sit together in silence until the sun sets completely.
Author's babblings: The twenty something reviews of this story have more content than the two hundred of that twilight thing I wrote when I was like thirteen. Which is my way of saying, please review, because I'm hoplesssly in love with you all.
Ferb is so chatty in this chapter- I hate it. He is drunk, though. I must also admit the trope Hideous Hangover Cure was shamelessly used in this chapter – probably stolen from The Parent Trap.
By the way, who are you dying to see in this story? Particularly, I'm trying to see how to get Vanessa into all this. Next chapter is on its way, which is my way of saying its going to take less than a year. Proably. Hopefully.