Sting always told Rogue he needed to loosen up more at parties, and maybe if Rogue had started on that earlier, things wouldn't have ended up so cataclysmically disastrous. It wasn't that Rogue didn't know how to loosen up. Despite most people's first impression of him being that he was a surely, brooding, hard to approach person, he was nice and friendly and generally upbeat, albeit significantly less extroverted in all those areas when compared to Sting. He could socialize and relax at parties with no difficulty. What he didn't do was get himself drunk. After all, someone had to walk Sting's drunken ass home afterward, and from past experience they knew Lector wasn't physically strong enough to keep Sting on the right path.

This time, however, Rogue didn't care. Sting could stumble into a water reservoir and wake up drenched on top of hung over. It would serve him right. Rogue, in the meantime, planned on ending his night in a similar fashion, although thus far he'd only worked up the nerve to down two mugs of beer.

His goal was to remember nothing of the party, wake up the next morning feeling so sick that he couldn't possibly show up at the guild, and pray to any god who might be out there for Sting to do the same. If Sting forgot that a little liquid courage had given him the boost he needed to finally confess to Minerva, then maybe he'd go back to quietly pinning for her while he tried to work up the nerve sober. Minerva, at least had turned Sting down.

At least, turned him down for the time being. Until she was ready to give him a definitive answer.

It wasn't fair. Minerva came and went without ever palling up to anyone in the guild, and took shots at Sting's intelligence or strength whenever she happened to be around. Even when she tried to joke or act friendly, her idea of nice was what Rogue could most nicely describe as acerbic. What made her so special to Sting, he had no idea. Meanwhile, Rogue was there every day, unconditionally loyal, helping Sting with anything he needed. The closest he got to romantically involved with Sting was being asked to fulfill the duties of a wingman.

Maybe, Rogue thought, if he'd confessed to Sting first, he would have received a positive response. If he'd only made himself say it before Sting could act on his own crush, things could have gone differently. Maybe. Sting had hinted more than enough times that he liked Minerva, but Rogue always played oblivious, thinking that when he finally answered Sting's questions about who he liked—which were always asked as a lead in so Rogue could ask Sting about his affection for Minerva—it would be more appropriate if he didn't know that his special someone was most interested in someone else.

"Can I get another?" Rogue asked, holding his empty mug up.

The bartender smiled and slid another mug down to him. "Not hanging out with the rest of your friends? I thought it was you and Sting you folks came to celebrate for."

"Sting can be a little… much, once he's had a few. I need a break, and I'm going to need another beer to deal with him if he gets any more drunk than he is."

Lies. Rogue couldn't remember ever being inebriated before, and already expected the night to end embarrassingly. He might even confess to Sting after all, although he could honestly tell everyone in the morning that he'd never have done such a thing if he were sober. The truth was that seeing Sting that much closer to someone else put him in too foul a mood. Minerva might not have reciprocated, but she hadn't outright rejected Sting either.

He couldn't admit to being in a foul mood, of course. Not when the guild had taken him and Sting to a bar specifically to celebrate their shared birthday. (Or at least, the day that Sting had arbitrarily decided could be their shared birthday, since neither of them knew the real dates.) He'd shown up in a good mood too. Letting onto the fact that he was unhappy when it was his birthday and he'd been happy ten minutes ago would incite questions. If pressed for answers, Rogue might be forced to admit to the actual problem before he was too drunk to pretend the next morning that he was talking nonsense.

Across the room, Sting slung and arm around Minerva, and though she ducked out from under him in response, she laughed when she did so. Rogue, seeing the exchange, grabbed the new mug and took a swig.

How much beer did it take to get dead drunk anyway? Sting usually made it through eleven or twelve before he had to lean on Rogue to keep from falling over, but if Rogue remembered what the nurse said that time he had to rush Sting to the hospital to get his stomach pumped, it took less alcohol to feel the effects when your body wasn't used to it. Rogue took that as a good thing, since it meant he was significantly less likely to give himself alcohol poisoning before he could pass out.

By the time he'd finished his third drink, he already had a little trouble keeping track of where exactly up and down were, which Rogue took as a sign that he was drunk enough that if he had any more he'd be as lost trying to get home as Sting would be, which would end badly. If Sting heard that number, he'd get a kick out of what a lightweight Rogue was. Still not feeling sufficiently wasted to stop caring about what Sting did, Rogue pushed himself up from the bar and walked in an almost straight line over to Sting's table.

Sting took one look at him and burst out laughing. "Look who's finally partying!"

"Yeah, yeah. Have fun finding your own way home, 'cuzz I don't remember the directions," Rogue said. It wasn't entirely true, but he'd already determined he wasn't helping Sting anyway.

Sting, in response, only laughed harder. Rogue smiled at that, thinking of how Sting would handle hearing anything that loud come morning.

"Here I thought you planned on sulking in the corner all evening," Rufus said. "Finally realized this party is also for you?"

Rogue snorted. "What party with Sting in it ever focuses on anyone else?"

"Oh?" Sting leaned over, slinging an arm around Rogue. "Jealous, are we?"

Perfectly-sober-Rogue could have brushed that off and said something to casually dismiss that was obviously said in jest. Rogue-who-only-had-three-beers-but-was-already-a-little-too-drunk-for-his-wits was not quite able to accomplish this. He processed that it was only a joke slower than he normally would have, and then lingered on the fact in an ideal world, Sting would worry about making him jealous, not joke about the idea. By the time he realized he needed to deny anything, too much time had passed, so he instead looked away and hoped his hair would hide that he was blushing.

"You are jealous." The hand not already on his shoulder clapped him in the chest. Only God knew what gesture Sting had been going for when he did that. "What'cha jealous about?"

For fear that it might make the room start spinning in his intoxicated state, Rogue refrained from rolling his eyes when he said, "Go home, Sting. You're drunk."

"That's the point of coming to a bar, silly! So, what'cha jealous 'bout? Is it that I got a cute girlfriend? Don't be sad. I'm sure there's someone out there who likes the scary emo look."

"Nevermind." Rogue shoved Sting, and the blond fell sideways across the booth seat. "I'm going home because you're drunk."

"Ah. No, wait. Rogue!"

Rogue might have been a little tipsy, but he could still walk in a mostly straight line. Sting, on the other hand, didn't seem to remember how one pushed themselves upright. This made for an incredibly easy getaway, and Rogue was out of the bar and several blocks down the street before his sharp ears picked up Sting following him outside.

"Rogue!" Sting shouted.

Dear Lord was he ever loud. Rogue cringed and tried to walk faster, but nearly lost his balance and had to switch back to a normal walking pace.

He made it around the corner and, forgetting in almost no time at all that he was not completely sober, tried to make a run for it. For his efforts, Rogue found himself stumbling a good ten feet before he managed to regain his balance. Once perfectly upright again (as far as he could tell), Rogue decided to instead duck into a nearby ally and hope Sting was too drunk to follow his scent. He couldn't outrun the idiot, and one way or another, he didn't want to lead Sting all the way back to his house.

"Rogue! Hey! Wait up! Whatever I said, I'm sorry Rogue, so—Oof."

Unable to help himself, Rogue glanced back and saw that Sting had not only fallen over, but made no effort to get back up, or even role off of his stomach. The jealous, jilted part of Rogue said that it served him right, but jilted or not, Rogue was still in love with Sting. He couldn't leave the idiot lying there, possibly with a serious concussion from face-planting into the cobblestones.

He turned around and walked over to Sting, who'd only made it just around the corner, and rolled him over to inspect the damage. A few minor bruises, but not enough to offset the obnoxious grin on the blond's face.

"I knew you'd come back for me."

"And now that I know you're fine, I'm abandoning you again."

"Wait!" Sting managed to grab Rogue's pant leg. "I'm not fine. The party's gonna be sad without you and I don' know where I live. I mean… no, wait... I don't know which direction I live in."

Rogue tore his leg out from Sting's grasp. "Get your girlfriend to take you home."

"My what?"

Rogue paused, then glanced to the bar door. Inside, he heard no signs of Minerva coming to make sure Sting was okay. Anyone with eyes could have seen he wasn't in any condition to be out on the streets alone.

Well… fine then. He could subtly rub it in Sting's face come morning, when Sting was already in a bad mood from the hangover, that he was the one who Sting needed to get help from after Minerva left him to fend for himself. Rogue pulled Sting up off the ground and put a hand around his waist, setting off towards Sting's house.

The walk home was uneventful, at least relative to the average drunken escort. Rogue did make a wrong turn twice, but Sting was oblivious to this, and acted as he normally did when Rogue helped him home. He laughed at stupid things he would normally never pay attention to, attempted to whisper dark secrets to Rogue that came out slurred and often ended when he accidentally licked Rogue's ear, and occasionally burst into song to "lighten up the streets a little." Mercifully, magic was something Sting always retained enough sense to realize he shouldn't use when wasted.

They made it to Sting's, and Rogue produced his copy of the key from his pocket to let them in, although it took a few tries to get the key in the hole. Once inside, he dumped Sting on the couch. The idiot promptly started snoring, which meant that even if he wasn't at the blackout stage of drunk, Rogue could do as he pleased without Sting knowing about it come morning. After having to walk Sting home, not to mention suffer through watching Sting confess to someone that wasn't him, Rogue figured he'd earned the right to go through Sting's pantry for something to give him a little energy to make it back to his own apartment. Neither of them would enjoy being hungover together, if he stayed until morning.

Rogue was in the middle of opening up a box of buttery crackers when the snoring stopped. Preoccupied with the wrinkling of the plastic sleeves inside the box, he didn't notice the noise's absence until two arms wrapped around him, and he was pulled back into the main kitchen area.

"What'r you mad at me for anyway?"

"Weren't you asleep?"

Dunno. What'r you mad for?"

Sting was drunk enough to accept any lie, but rather than go that route, Rogue asked, "How many drinks did you have?"

"I lost count. What'r you mad for? I don't like it when you get mad."

Rogue knew Sting well enough to know that when he forgot how much he'd had, he'd definitely hit the blackout point. Rogue could say whatever he wanted and Sting wouldn't remember come morning, so he told the truth.

"I don't want to watch you gloating about how you and Minerva are going to be a thing when you'd be better off with me. She hardly even looked at you all evening."

Sting giggled. "You lllike me."

"Yes. Not that you ever notice." That came out more bitter than he'd intended, but then he'd been frustrated with the situation for a while, so he wasn't surprised.

"I can notice you now. Then will you stop being mad?"

"Sure. Whatever." If drunk Sting was the one to get under his skin, it made more sense to accept drunk Sting's attempts to make amends than it did to demand an apology from sober Sting in the morning.

"Kay. But you gotta help me get upstairs."

"Why?"

"Cuzz that's where my bed is. You want t' do the kind of stuff with me that I want to do with Minerva, right?"

This was where Rogue's low alcohol tolerance and three beers led to disaster. Sober Rogue would have known then and there to call a halt to things and run home at max speed. Having drank more than he should have, Rogue instead reflected on this unique situation, which he was likely never to find himself again, and concluded that for research purposes he ought to see what Sting wanted with Minerva. As his rival in love, he needed to know exactly what he was up against. He'd probably die a virgin if he didn't, at the rate things were going.

Rogue led Sting upstairs and into the bedroom, and already had his shirt off before Sting thought to say, "We need to be naked for this."

Thankfully, Sting didn't need any help undressing himself. As Rogue climbed into bed with him, despite knowing that this was what Sting wanted with someone else, he couldn't help but think that so long as Sting didn't throw up midway through, this would be the best birthday ever.

-x-

STA: Fun fact. I wrote this chapter in freaking October. But I was full swing in another fic then and didn't want to have two fics posting at the same time while school was going on. (I don't like to go too long without updating something once I start posting, and I don't like to feel pressure to keep working on too many stories at once.) I was gonna post it first once I finished with all but the bonus stuff for Burn Out, but then when I mentioned it and Butterfly Sanctuary on my blog, that story generated more interest from a brief summary.

Then when I started proof-reading this to post, like, a week ago, I noticed that chapter 2 or whatever mentions that chapter 1 takes place ion June 20th. (I have this info in a calendar somewhere, but I mostly check that when writing new stuff to make sure that someone doesn't go through nine months of spring during a pregnancy, not to reference the exact specific date of a scene I already wrote. I know I pulled that date out of my ass when I first wrote this, but it was only a few days off and I thought "Eh. Why not post it on the day this stuff is supposed to happen?" Because waiting a couple extra days to post would be easier than shifting all the story events back a week and making sure that any references that might allude to the date are still correct.

This is the only chapter that I plan to have correspond to the real time date, though. Some chapters have, like, a two month gap between them, and I really don't like to make people wait that long for an update. (I never remember jackshit about a fic I was following if I go that long without a chapter.) Also, some chapters start on one date and end on a much later date. When would I even post those ones?