hackthis_archive | REPOST - Happiness Was Never Really Our Success (Chuck, Chuck/Bryce PG)

I'm reposting this story because of a coding snafu, which cut out, like, seven or eight lines in the middle. (Thank you to everyone who commented before.)

Chuck
Chuck/Bryce
Rated PG
Written for

picfor1000

Happiness Was Never Really Our Success

It's not the first drink that causes Chuck's problems. It's more like the fifth or sixth.

Or possibly the seventh.

He stopped counting after that green drink, except this one is orange. He thinks. It looks orange in the lights, until the lights change and then he's lost all over again.

Chuck has no idea what the super tan, shirtless, buff guy standing next to him is saying, something about Chuck's belt he thinks. Chuck just nods along, because Super Tan Man has already bought him three drunks –- drinks –- tonight.

Maybe four.

Chuck can't think very well with the Technicolor lights flashing in his periphery. And the music. Oh god, the music is throbbing in Chuck's head like that headache he gets when Lester and Jeff argue about how awesome Boba Fett was. Is.

Was?

Chuck blames the drinks.

Yes, it's definitely the nice fruity drinks that he keeps getting from the bartender that isn't Casey that are the problem, because Casey is mean, and possibly the worst gay bartender ever.

For a start, Casey refuses to serve Chuck since they're on "assignment." And he keeps hiding in the back –- if Casey ever hid from anybody ever.

Chuck won't even go into what Casey said to the poor little sparkly boy that just wanted a Mai Tai or a boy toy or a -– something.

It's always the fruity drinks that sneak up on you like –- like –-

"Hello, Chuck."

Okay, that was Chuck's seventh drink that's now being crushed under foot by the gyrating couple next to him at the bar. He didn't even know you could do that with your clothes on.

"Chuck," the voice coaxes.

Chuck can feel his face crumpling into that drunken sort of despair that only comes from far too much alcohol and far too many ex-roommate/spies/boyfriend thingys/whatever.

Super Tan Buff Guy frowns. "We were talking, dude," he says. "Get your own."

Chuck just shakes his head. "Oh god, no," he moans. "Not you."

"Is this guy bothering you?" Buff Guy says.

"This guy is his boyfriend," Bryce says flatly. "Maybe the question should be are you bothering him?"

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know he was taken. I don't suppose you share, huh?"

Chuck covers his eyes; he doesn't even want to see this.

"Yeah, didn't think so," Buff Guy says after a moment.

Chuck scowls when Bryce Larkin pulls Chuck's hand away from his eyes. Buff Guy is gone. "You are the worst not-boyfriend ever!" he shouts over the music. "You suck!"

The gyrating couple consider Bryce curiously; Chuck knows he's got this horrified look on his face. "No, not like that!" he corrects.

"Well, then it's a good thing you dumped him, sister!" Gyrating Man A with the neon hot pants says.

"I hate men who are selfish in bed," agrees Gyrating Man B.

Bryce gives the couple his most ingratiating smile. "I assure you I never did anything in bed that Chuck didn't like," he says, before grabbing Chuck by the arm and pulling him away.

"That's totally not true!" Chuck protests, stumbling along and struggling to be heard over the music. "You put this thing in my head, and now look!"

"Oooh, kinky," a voice calls out gaily. "I love a man with a piercing. Can I see?"

"Sorry," Bryce calls over his shoulder. "I don't share."

"Oh my god," Chuck moans, "it keeps getting worse." He casts a desperate look around, hoping, praying for some divine intervention, but Casey is no Jesus, and women, especially ones like Sarah, would be mighty conspicuous at Bubble Night at RAGE.

This is why Chuck is all alone in a sea of writhing gay men, covered in sparkles and -- ah, here comes the bubbles and foam. Chuck pauses as the bubble machines kick in, blowing bubbles everywhere. This club is like Willy Wonka on an acid trip. With a dance soundtrack.

He reaches out to pop a bubble with his finger

Chuck has to give these bad guys credit, he never thought you could run an international drug ring out of a gay club, but there must be something in those drinks to make them so good. Crack. It's probably crack.

They put crack in Krispy Kremes too.

Bryce's laugh interrupts Chuck's thoughts. "They don't put crack in Krispy Kremes, Chuck," he says, tugging Chuck along.

Chuck scowls at the back of Bryce's head as Bryce continues to wind his way through the crowd. "I'm not talking to you, did I mention that?"

Bryce stops this time, and Chuck runs right into him. Stupid Bryce with his stupid crooked smile, and the way his ass is pressed against Chuck's –

Did Chuck mention the part where he's really drunk?

It takes Chuck a minute to realize it's gotten much darker. And there aren't as many bubbles. And it's quieter. Well, relatively so, the music is still thumping, but the walls are moving. Wait, moving?

"Oh my god, you brought me in the back room at a gay club?" he hisses in Bryce's ear.

Bryce turns on him with a sharp grin. "The back room is where things happen, Chuck. Are you telling me you slept through all those cop movies we saw?"

"Shut up and suck or get out!" a voice orders in the darkness.

And just like that Chuck is pressed against a wall that has god only knows what on it from people doing stuff he doesn't even look at on the internet. Except sometimes.

"I'm working," Chuck says stiffly as Bryce brackets his body.

"That's why I'm here," Bryce says, curling his fingers into Chuck's shirt and tugging him downward.

"I thought you were off the grid," Chuck breathes against Bryce's mouth.

"I make exceptions for you."

"Isn't that how you got in trouble last time?" Chuck's laugh is strained.

"Less talking, more working on your cover," Bryce prods.

"I always knew you were a bad influence," Chuck sighs.

But he kisses Bryce anyway.

-end-

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