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[browbeats]

WHO: Daniel Notoriano & Rosemary Stoker
WHAT: Bad kids on a date acting like they don't even like each other.
WHEN: March 31, at least half a dozen champagnes deep.
WHERE: The Fiori-James Wedding in Somewhere Super Classy, New Jersey.
WARNING: Bad.

Ah, weddings. Beautiful, meaningful, life-changing events. People coming together to celebrate the happy couple and, usually, get completely, embarrassingly shitfaced. Danny’s about halfway there, already. He really can't believe his luck. Two weddings with easily obtainable alcohol in one week? He takes a long drink from the bottle of beer he procured. “I’ve never seen so much spray tanner in one place.” He says to Rosy - his date to this shindig; another unbelievable stroke of luck. “They've transformed it into an artform.” The champagne flute in Rosy’s hand is empty. Which is a problem, because Rosy’s only halfway to shitfaced, and she needs to be all the way to shitfaced. She’d made a very bad hair decision earlier and it was imperative she be too drunk to fix it or worry about her mother’s reaction in the morning. “I think the best man has a pinup tattoo on his arm,” she says, glancing around for someone to bully into fetching her more champagne. “You think he gets her a separate spray tan? She deserves it for standing by him all these years.” "After the full body spray, I bet he has a personal artist handle the fine details for Sheila." Danny agrees, his attention set on hailing one of the servers wandering around balancing trays of alcohol. When one finally makes her way over, she doesn't even ask if he'd like sparkling grape juice before handing him two flutes. Bless this union. He doesn't even need to lie to acquire alcohol. He passes one of the glasses to Rosy. "I can't believe we won't get to experience this magic again until January gets married." "Jesus, Notoriano," Rosy scoffs, knocking her fist into his shoulder. She is, unfortunately, too many flutes deep to pull her punches for anyone right now, even bespectacled nerds. "Think like a problem solver." Tipping back a good-sized sip from the drink in her hand, Rosy leans closer to Danny--closer than she means, but, really, just close enough to make sure she can be heard over the music, and nothing else. "We just gotta set someone here up. Based on, like, compatible tattoos." Danny's expression puckers. He makes an irritated noise that sounds vaguely like words, but probably doesn't actually contain any. That's really all he can muster at being slugged by now in his life. And then he's moved on to a different, still slightly sour expression. Oh, no, that's just his resting face. "I came to a wedding to do two things: get drunk and experience the loving bond of two people I sort of know." He takes a sip from his glass. "There's a pretty high investment cost in matchmaking two people up to marriage. I'm going to need a bigger incentive." "Because I bet that guy, with the three wolves on his arm there?" Rosy points, very obviously, across the room toward a perfectly innocent young man, casually leaning on the bar. "Gives out full bottles of hair gel as wedding favors." She turns to Danny, eyebrows up, her delight in this perfect argument clear on her face. "It's just good business, Daniel.” "Oh yeah?" Danny cranes his neck, leaning against Rosy, ostensibly to get a better look at Mr. Wolf Tattoo. Ostensibly. Once he's reasonably sure that his space invasion has been sufficiently irritating, he looks at her and grins. "Alright, Rosemary. Who're we setting Three Wolf Moon up with?” After giving the room a quick scan, he points at a young woman whose hair is taller than his is. “Maybe Barbie over there." "I think we need to ask ourselves two very important questions before we bless that union." Rosy gives Danny a half-hearted shove to get him out of her personal space. It's almost a nice push. She's not even aiming to bruise him. "First, will they last through the first fight over who gets more bathroom time?" Another sip of her champagne, and Rosy has to wonder why they put this drink in such small glasses. Is someone here trying not to get drunk? "And second, do we get the presents back if they don't?" “I’m pretty sure they’re obligated to return wedding gifts if the marriage doesn't last thirty days.” Danny rolls his eyes, but goes on with the plan. He sets his drink down long enough to gesture in the air, hands like weighted scales. “So, we want compatible, but not too compatible.” As soon as Danny's done talking the glass is back in his hand and he's drinking most of the contents. “Barbie and Wolf might be the sort of union built to last, and I’m not shelling out for a nice food processor if I’m not getting it back.” And the he thinks of something: “Hey- what about the relationship quiz in the last Gryffin Beat. If we can find two people who score a four out of ten, that might be the ticket.” "Mm, so that quiz passes the scientific muster for you." Rosy smirks, takes another drink, and is disappointed to find her flute empty so soon. She doesn't even look around before she raises a hand and starts snapping for service, like the entitled brat she is. If she doesn't wake up with a screaming headache tomorrow, she's fucking failed. "Your criteria is either fascinatingly complex or," she wrinkles her nose, pokes him in the arm with a knuckle, "conveniently inconsistent." "Now, hold on." Danny holds a hand up, but he's just gesturing wildly while talking and not actually trying to flag down another waiter. If it helps in the acquisition of more alcohol, it's a happy accident. "You heard it straight from Derek, himself: bananas aren't his favorite fruit. That quiz is flawed. Results disproven." A pause. "The relationship quiz, on the other hand, was written by Electra Spinnet. A true scholar. I trust her articles." A server puts another drink in his hand, possibly just to shut him up. He's getting pretty loud, after all. "Pffffft, maybe pick someone who's not getting divorced." Rosy handily dismisses the credentials of Ms. Electra Spinnet as she takes her new drink, and doesn't let the server walk away until she has at least two. This is about efficiency, don't fight her on this. Then she lowers her voice conspiratorially--or, she thinks she lowers her voice, but the good news is most people at this reception are too self-involved to eavesdrop on a couple drunk teenagers. "I hear he was cheating on her with the dog walker," she thinks she whispers. "It was the answer to 34-down." Of course it was. Because Gryffin Beat is a quality publication. "Sounds like a woman who knows when to kick a man to the curb to me." Danny asserts, knocking back this entire new glass of bubbly in one go. He'll go to bat for his girl Electra Spinnet (apparently). "I'd trust her advice about relationships." Setting the glass back down on the table next to the other ones - they've amassed quite a collection at this point - he knocks his head to the side. "What exactly do we have to do to get alcohol in something bigger than a tall dixie cup? Also, who's the one doing those crosswords in pen? Is it you?" "Rob a liquor store, flirt with a waiter, I don't know," Rosy says with a shrug. There's a reasonable part of her brain, a part that had been locked away in a basement cell the second she picked up those scissors and started hacking at her hair, and it's shouting through the fog of sparkling wine to drink some fucking water. Rosy, rightfully, tips the flute back and drowns that bitch. Not tonight, anxiety and logic. She adds another glass to their collection, and looks back to Danny. "And you know damn well who's doing the crosswords in pen." The exact quirk of her eyebrows is unbearably smug, and she leans closer to add. "The sudoku, too.” “I can't believe you.” Danny pokes one finger forward, accusing, but he sounds more amused (and drunk) than actually angry. “That poor junior girl, what’s-her-name, probably just wants to know the joy of solving a word puzzle about pop stars. You’re depriving her that. Shameless.” And speaking of shameless, Danny makes no effort to hide the fact that he’s staring at Rosy’s lips. On the contrary, once he’s done ranting, he’s quite obvious as he leans in to kiss her, hand reaching to touch the side of her face. There are some complex social equations running through Rosy's head at this exact moment. How does she maintain the upper hand? Danny moved first. Can she reciprocate without losing any feeling of social superiority? How much does their inebriation factor into this? Oh screw you, anxiety, you knew exactly where this night was going when Rosy left the hotel in a push-up bra. Rosy puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him closer for the kiss. Then she runs her hand up through his hair, deliberately ruffling it. Like a fucking asshole. Danny breaks their kiss just long enough to glare in a way that’s too close to a grin and grumble, “You fuck.” And then he’s diving back in, again. He’s convinced he has the upper hand. Even though the way his head spins can’t be attributed to the alcohol, alone. And the amount of brain power used to gloat over this victory is considerably less than what’s been dedicated to cataloging the smell of her perfume, the feel of her skin, all the other details of this moment. But, no, he’s definitely the one winning here, Danny decides as he opens his mouth against hers. "You like it," she says, and she's not even trying not to grin. Rosy hates the way her stomach feels when they kiss again--too light and too heavy at once. She hates how her skin tingles where he touched her, long after his fingers have moved on. She hates how short her breath is and how much she doesn't care, because she doesn't want him to pull away again, because she likes it. And she's fucked.