FIC: Czechoslovakia and Bad Decisions (1/1)
Fandom: NFL RPS
Pairing: Drew Brees/Peyton Manning
Rating: PG-13-ish (implied sex, language, and lots of drinking)
Everything that happened in the 36 hours leading up to the Super Bowl changed what he’d thought it would be. Drew found that trying to take what was an assumed victory from Peyton was harder than he’d expected.
It was even harder when he succeeded.
Watching Peyton march off the field was also hard.
Damn, Drew thought, All this hardness just reminds me of last night.
It took all he had not to snicker.
No. This is serious. Peyton’s pissed.
Drew brushed some of the confetti out of his eyes. This would have to happen later. He was supposed to celebrate.
-----
Partying and getting drunk are not mutually exclusive. Drew was a firm believer in this. He would never, ever exhaust himself with partying in the afternoon - okay, morning - the day before he was playing in the Super Bowl. He’d worked way too hard to get here and would never risk it like that.
Getting drunk, though, is very different.
Drew was sitting in the hotel restaurant, ordering drink after drink. He wished there were bars open at 10:30 in the morning so he wouldn’t have to be doing this in the damn hotel restaurant. But this was the only way, he figured, to calm his fucking nerves, which were buzzing like the bathtub of a suicidally depressed individual. Drew was avoiding ESPN and all sports commentary like the plague. He didn’t need to hear for the millionth time that the Colts would in all likelihood win, snatching from him the exclusion of “…but they ended up losing…” as a suffix to this incredible season, a stupid dumb annoying fucking footnote that nullifies everything on the page. He would not let himself be Tom Brady circa 2007. Fuck no.
Shit, I’m feeling it, Drew thought, running a hand through his hair. But one more White Russian can’t hurt.
As Drew attempted to wave down the waiter, whom he was pretty sure was a Saints fan and thus disappointed in Drew’s current behavior, he saw Peyton. Here.
More incomplete sentences ran through his mind as he slowly lowered his hand. Peyton. Here. Alone. Shot glass. Well-colored whiskey. Maybe. Wow. Eyes on the mahogany. Here. Now. Shit. Fuck.
Drew really didn’t want to see the man who would most likely be stealing his sans footnotes season. He stood to leave, but his legs wobbled and he grabbed the table for support, causing his most recent glass to tumble to the ground, not breaking, but the whole situation was nonetheless rather noticeable. Peyton looked up.
Balls. Drew glanced down, and picked up the glass. He set it back on the table, and his eyes returned to Peyton, who motioned for him to join.
Cock. Drew couldn’t really tell if he was staggering or not, but he got over there one way or another and sat down.
“Uh. Hi.” He said, focusing on tracing the scratches in the wood with his finger.
“What’re you drinkin’?” Peyton drawled.
“Um. Whatever.” It was kind of scary to be here. This was Peyton Manning. Multiple season MVP. And he was Drew Brees. Comeback player of the year in 2004; that “comeback” always did piss him off.
Peyton didn’t respond.
“What are you drinking?” Drew nervously replied, clearing his throat.
Peyton half-grinned, and handed his glass to Drew.
“Have some.”
Drew shrugged and finished off the shot, and proceeded to cough for several minutes. Peyton was laughing.
“Why are you drinking rubbing alcohol?” Drew wheezed, eyes watering as he handed the glass back to Peyton.
“It’s Czechoslovakian rum.” Peyton said, inspecting the glass for any leftovers.
“Oh,” Drew said, regaining his composure and suddenly feeling a very nice buzz, “Well, if you’re gonna model your drinking after anyone, the Czech are a good choice. I guess.”
Peyton turned his eyes toward Drew, still smiling bemusedly. Drew smiled back.
“Though personally I was drinking White Russians, uh, before, so I win, from a historical perspective, at least,”
“You get talkative when you’re drunk, dontcha?”
“Yes, yes I do. I think it’s because -”
Peyton cut him off with a kiss.
Well, not what I was expecting.
“Come up to my room.” Peyton growled.
Drew was kind of afraid to look away. He gulped.
“Got any more of that rum?” he asked.
Peyton nodded immediately. Drew still didn't look away.
“Okay.”
-----
Drew returned to the hotel at 7 in the morning, and glanced into the restaurant, just to see if…he was there.
He was; in the same spot as…before. Drew gulped, and made his way over. Peyton didn’t look up. Drew sat down.
“Hey,”
Peyton didn’t respond for several very tense minutes.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you walk into mine.”
“Good sir, this is hardly a gin joint, and you are hardly Humphrey Bogart.” Drew attempted a joke. Peyton didn’t laugh.
“Wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” Peyton mumbled, finishing his shot of what looked like the same Czech rum.
“Yeah, I know.”
“No. You really don’t.”
“Can’t you be happy for me?”
“No, not really. Since when do I owe you anything?”
Drew choked on his response.
“Well, I mean…last night…”
“Last night was nothing. It was bad decisions and Czech rum. Nothing else,”
Didn’t seem like it to me.
“Didn’t seem like it to me.”
Fuck.
“Well, you were wrong about that. I was wrong about the Super Bowl. We’re even.” Peyton stood up, and left. Drew watched him leave. He wasn’t sure if there was a melancholy piano playing, but it sure seemed like it.
I hope fucking Czechoslovakia gets invaded again.
Pairing: Drew Brees/Peyton Manning
Rating: PG-13-ish (implied sex, language, and lots of drinking)
Everything that happened in the 36 hours leading up to the Super Bowl changed what he’d thought it would be. Drew found that trying to take what was an assumed victory from Peyton was harder than he’d expected.
It was even harder when he succeeded.
Watching Peyton march off the field was also hard.
Damn, Drew thought, All this hardness just reminds me of last night.
It took all he had not to snicker.
No. This is serious. Peyton’s pissed.
Drew brushed some of the confetti out of his eyes. This would have to happen later. He was supposed to celebrate.
-----
Partying and getting drunk are not mutually exclusive. Drew was a firm believer in this. He would never, ever exhaust himself with partying in the afternoon - okay, morning - the day before he was playing in the Super Bowl. He’d worked way too hard to get here and would never risk it like that.
Getting drunk, though, is very different.
Drew was sitting in the hotel restaurant, ordering drink after drink. He wished there were bars open at 10:30 in the morning so he wouldn’t have to be doing this in the damn hotel restaurant. But this was the only way, he figured, to calm his fucking nerves, which were buzzing like the bathtub of a suicidally depressed individual. Drew was avoiding ESPN and all sports commentary like the plague. He didn’t need to hear for the millionth time that the Colts would in all likelihood win, snatching from him the exclusion of “…but they ended up losing…” as a suffix to this incredible season, a stupid dumb annoying fucking footnote that nullifies everything on the page. He would not let himself be Tom Brady circa 2007. Fuck no.
Shit, I’m feeling it, Drew thought, running a hand through his hair. But one more White Russian can’t hurt.
As Drew attempted to wave down the waiter, whom he was pretty sure was a Saints fan and thus disappointed in Drew’s current behavior, he saw Peyton. Here.
More incomplete sentences ran through his mind as he slowly lowered his hand. Peyton. Here. Alone. Shot glass. Well-colored whiskey. Maybe. Wow. Eyes on the mahogany. Here. Now. Shit. Fuck.
Drew really didn’t want to see the man who would most likely be stealing his sans footnotes season. He stood to leave, but his legs wobbled and he grabbed the table for support, causing his most recent glass to tumble to the ground, not breaking, but the whole situation was nonetheless rather noticeable. Peyton looked up.
Balls. Drew glanced down, and picked up the glass. He set it back on the table, and his eyes returned to Peyton, who motioned for him to join.
Cock. Drew couldn’t really tell if he was staggering or not, but he got over there one way or another and sat down.
“Uh. Hi.” He said, focusing on tracing the scratches in the wood with his finger.
“What’re you drinkin’?” Peyton drawled.
“Um. Whatever.” It was kind of scary to be here. This was Peyton Manning. Multiple season MVP. And he was Drew Brees. Comeback player of the year in 2004; that “comeback” always did piss him off.
Peyton didn’t respond.
“What are you drinking?” Drew nervously replied, clearing his throat.
Peyton half-grinned, and handed his glass to Drew.
“Have some.”
Drew shrugged and finished off the shot, and proceeded to cough for several minutes. Peyton was laughing.
“Why are you drinking rubbing alcohol?” Drew wheezed, eyes watering as he handed the glass back to Peyton.
“It’s Czechoslovakian rum.” Peyton said, inspecting the glass for any leftovers.
“Oh,” Drew said, regaining his composure and suddenly feeling a very nice buzz, “Well, if you’re gonna model your drinking after anyone, the Czech are a good choice. I guess.”
Peyton turned his eyes toward Drew, still smiling bemusedly. Drew smiled back.
“Though personally I was drinking White Russians, uh, before, so I win, from a historical perspective, at least,”
“You get talkative when you’re drunk, dontcha?”
“Yes, yes I do. I think it’s because -”
Peyton cut him off with a kiss.
Well, not what I was expecting.
“Come up to my room.” Peyton growled.
Drew was kind of afraid to look away. He gulped.
“Got any more of that rum?” he asked.
Peyton nodded immediately. Drew still didn't look away.
“Okay.”
-----
Drew returned to the hotel at 7 in the morning, and glanced into the restaurant, just to see if…he was there.
He was; in the same spot as…before. Drew gulped, and made his way over. Peyton didn’t look up. Drew sat down.
“Hey,”
Peyton didn’t respond for several very tense minutes.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you walk into mine.”
“Good sir, this is hardly a gin joint, and you are hardly Humphrey Bogart.” Drew attempted a joke. Peyton didn’t laugh.
“Wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” Peyton mumbled, finishing his shot of what looked like the same Czech rum.
“Yeah, I know.”
“No. You really don’t.”
“Can’t you be happy for me?”
“No, not really. Since when do I owe you anything?”
Drew choked on his response.
“Well, I mean…last night…”
“Last night was nothing. It was bad decisions and Czech rum. Nothing else,”
Didn’t seem like it to me.
“Didn’t seem like it to me.”
Fuck.
“Well, you were wrong about that. I was wrong about the Super Bowl. We’re even.” Peyton stood up, and left. Drew watched him leave. He wasn’t sure if there was a melancholy piano playing, but it sure seemed like it.
I hope fucking Czechoslovakia gets invaded again.