#◈ // ❛ (crack) -- madness in great ones must not unwatched go.

[nat-roman0ff]

a lesson in shakesbeer

drunk!bestfriend shawn [fluff]

wc: 2,680

warnings: overzealous alcohol consumption, some bad words, & confessions.

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“Shawn Mendes, Lord of Pickering, Prince of Toronto, King of Adelaide Street, whilst thou please remove thy very large body from ye olde table before thoust gets thy ass kicked out?” 

Shawn stands with his hands on his hips staring back down at you from the table he’s perched upon, “you didn’t say it rightttttt!” He slurs. 

 He is (very clearly) drunk and refusing to get down from the table at the local bar you and your friends are occupying. It’s a normal Saturday night, one that Shawn just happens to be home for. You miss him, like, every fucking waking moment of your life that you aren’t next to him. But we can save that for later. 

 Right now, you’re dealing with Drunk Shawn. He doesn’t come out to play very often, but when he does usually resembles a toddler during their terrible twos stage, except he’s six foot two and can usually outrun you. After about his fourth tequila shot, you noticed Normal Shawn starting to fade away, and Drunk Shawn starting to take over. 

 You see, Drunk Shawn isn’t just a giant man baby with no sense of direction, Bambi legs, and a knack for getting punched in the face. No, Drunk Shawn also has made a habit of quoting Shakespeare (completely out of context) while under the influence. 

 “I don’t care if I didn’t say it right. I care that you get off that table before you get your ass kicked or fall and crack your fucking head open,” you reply, hands on your hips and ready to leave.

 It’s almost closing time, Shawn’s already been cut off, and three quarters of your group had already left for the night. 

 Shawn gasps, putting a hand over his mouth, “Princess of Tim Hortons said a bad word!” He points.

 You roll your eyes, “Shawn I’m counting to three and if you’re not off this table I’m calling your mother-” 

 “Don’t call Karen! Ugh - FINE!” He groans and jumps off, barely managing to land on his two feet and still stumbles into you, knocking you into the barstool behind you, “hey pretty lady,” he giggles. 

 “You’re so fucking stupid,” you half laugh, half groan. 

 Shawn rests his head on your shoulder, because of the height difference most of his body is bent in half, his ass sticking straight out, “but you’re my best friend and you love meeeeeee!”

 “Not by choice.” 

 Shawn gives a peck to your neck. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Shawn has always been a touchy person, even as your best friend. But some days, particularly the dark ones after a certain hour of the night has passed you hope one day his touches mean more. But right now you’re both twenty and he’s an international pop star and well, you’re just you.

 “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Shawn replies, his arm curling around you, “that ones from Hamlet,” he whisper giggly into your ear as if you didn’t pass tenth grade English.

 “Didn’t he fuck his mom?” 

 Shawn scoffs, “No, that was Oedipus and that’s Greek mythology you cultureless swine.” 

 You put up your hands defensively, “I’m sorry oh wise one. Put your goddamn coat on so we can leave.” 

 “Alrightttt,” Shawn pouts, “no more fine elixir for me tonight. Did you close my tab?” 

 You pull his credit card from you pocket, “yes I did, thank you for the Shirley Temples and nachos.” 

 He plucks the card from your fingertips, “you’re lucky I love you.” 

 You audibly sigh, “yeah, that’s it.” 

 “Love is a smoke, and is made with the fume of SIGHS,” he emphasises the last word.

 “Honestly I’m impressed. I didn’t think you knew how to read,” you joke. 

 Shawn pushes himself into you while wrestling with his jacket, “I scorn you, scurvy companion,” he says, grabbing your hand and pulling you outside. 

 You fumble with your umbrella, trying not to get hit by the downpouring rain. It’s coming down in buckets, so hard and so fast that the water droplets bounce off the pavement on the road. 

 “This isn’t necessary,” Shawn states, pulling the umbrella from your hands and tossing it into the street, narrowly missing a passing car. 

 They scream some obscenities out the window and the next car that passes crushes it, shaking their fist at the two of you. 

 “Are you fucking insane!?” You squawk, half wet and fully pissed off.

 “Madness in great ones must not unwatched go,” Shawn replies, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. 

 There’s a glint of something in his eye. He has that shit eating grin on his face and his eyes are all glassy and his hair is completely fucked. 

 “Fuck you William Shakespeare!” You shout into the street.

 Shawn pulls you out into the rain. Thankfully it’s warm, but you’re soaked within seconds, “he was a great man, you know.” 

 “He married his cousin, he can’t be that great.” 

 Shawn stops dead in his tracks and glares at you like you just insulted all of his greatest ancestors, “that was Edgar Allen Poe, not Shakespeare. How did you even pass English in high school?” 

 “I cheated off you.” 

 Shawn shrugs, “true.” He pauses for a moment before his smile widens, “Let’s go!” 

 He pulls on your hand, hard, “shit, Shawn slow down you’re going to rip my arm out of its socket.” 

 He can’t hear you over the sound of the rain (or he’s ignoring you, which is also another viable option) and continues to run. At this point, you’re so goddamn soaked that it doesn’t matter how many puddles he pulls you through. There aren’t many people left on the streets at this point in the night. It’s late, and the rain tends to keep most people in cars or condos. 

 You were lucky enough to have neither right now. 

 Shawn continues to hold your hand as you run, your dress now clinging to your body so tightly you aren’t quite sure how you’re going to get it off. Your legs are slick and wet and you thank all of your lucky stars and sensibility that you wore normal shoes tonight.

 He looks back periodically to check on you, his curly hair now sticking to the sides of his face. There’s a look of such fierce fearlessness that you’re taken back by it. Fearless not in the sense that he’d do something reckless and put himself in danger, but that he can finally just take a deep breath and let go.

 Being the best friend of Shawn Mendes hadn’t come without a few (hundred) hurdles. Everything happened so quickly for him in the beginning and you were proud and happy for him. But there was a sense of you that felt left behind. Looking back it seems like it happened overnight; the fame, the touring, the constant fucking ache of missing him. 

 You had determined at a very young age that you were in love with Shawn. Now, hear this out. This wasn’t a can’t eat, can’t sleep without you type of thing. It ebbed and flowed. You’d gotten so used to the idea of never ever being with him that it only crept up on major holidays, birthdays, and some leap years, with a day or long weekend sprinkled in here and there. Brian was the only one who knew, and shockingly he’d managed to keep his fat mouth shut for this many years. This missing Shawn, though, that never left. That shit was constant. 

 The lights of Shawn’s condo building glows in the distance and you’re relieved. You’re soaked, mildly annoyed, and ready for bed.

 “Welcome Home, m’lady,” Shawn says out of breath and opening the front door to the building. 

 The overnight doorman stares blankly at the both of you as you trail small puddles behind with each step to the elevator. Shawn lets you step in first and leans against the wall, his head lulling backwards as he shuts his eyes, “I’m so fucking drunk,” he mutters.

 “No shit.” 

 His head falls forward and his eyes lock with yours, “how come you never drink with me?” 

 “One of us has to be the responsible one,” you answer.

 Truthfully, you drank, sometimes. You suppose it wasn’t your thing and while you’re up for a good time, you feel like you can’t ever get that way with Shawn. God only knows what would fall out of your mouth when inhibitions were low. 

 The elevator opens to his floor and you follow him to the door. It takes him seven tries with his key before you pluck it from his fumbling fingertips and unlock the deadbolt. He trips and falls into the hallway as he pulls off his shoes and you roll your eyes at him. Shawn crawls behind you, grabbing at your legs and ankles, giggling every time he trips you up. 

 God, he really is annoying.

  You stop in the hallway, opening the door to the closet where the washer and dryer are. Your jacket peels off with difficulty. Shawn senses your struggle and clammers to his feet to help you out of it. The dress you’re wearing comes off a little easier, and you throw both items of clothing into the washing machine. Shawn’s eyes are glued to your body as you’re wearing only a bra and underwear. 

 “Eyes up here,” you wave your finger up, “now you strip.” 

 It’s a struggle, truly, to watch Shawn try to wiggle out of his sopping wet clothes. Finally, after elbowing a wall, falling twice, knocking over a framed photo of Drake (don’t ask) and stepping on your foot, you offer to help him undress.

 “Arms up,” you instruct and he grins sideways, his lazy eye more prominent than ever. 

 He follows your command and whips his arms up into the air. Your fingers graze his stomach and chest as you lift his wet shirt that clings to life on him. His skin is so impossibly warm and you resist the urge to run your palms across his broad chest and toned stomach. You look up only to catch him staring at you as you unbuckle his belt and undo his jeans. Slowly, you kneel down and peel the soaked denim away from his skin. Shawn steps backwards out of them and almost falls again. You throw the last of the clothes into the washer and start the machine.

 “Let’s get you a nice hot shower and then into bed, hmm?” You suggest, he still hasn’t taken his eyes off of you.

 Shawn swallows hard, “um, yeah,” he replies more soberly than you’ve heard him all night, his voice a touch deeper than usual. 

 He steps past you and into the bathroom. You’re left with the air of tension he left behind. What was going through his mind when he couldn’t take his eyes off of you? You’ve gotta stop thinking like that, you say to yourself, it’s never going to happen. You take a deep breath and shake off what you can. 

 When you’re in Shawn’s room you find one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants to change into. You peel off your wet undergarments and are welcomed with the feeling of clean, warm clothes. He’s put on some early John Mayer stuff and you can hear it echoing from the bathroom and floating into the bedroom along with his singing along. 

 You’re thinking too much about it again; these are the types of days and just around the time of night when you let your thoughts get loose and wander around the what ifs. What’s the worst that could happen if you tell him? Oh, just ruin a lifelong friendship because you can’t stand looking at his honey brown eyes and stupid curly hair without feeling like you’re going to burst.

 Maybe one day you’ll get over it, maybe one day you’ll be able to wake up and that dull ache of longing won’t be there anymore. Time definitely makes it easier, and him being gone for most of it. But all it takes is a late night and an overactive imagination and it all comes bubbling back up like it had never gone away in the first place. And you’ll spend days cramming it all back down again and things will be good and normal once again. 

 Shawn shouts your name from the shower and you rush to the door, expecting him to have fallen or something equally as clumsy in his drunken state. 

 “What?! What’s wrong?” You ask from the other side of the bathroom door. 

 “Nothing, just come in here I’m bored.” 

 You roll your eyes, of course.

 “Are you decent?” You ask. 

 “Never.” 

 “Am I going to see your ham and eggs if I come in there?” You groan. 

 Shawn laughs, “just come in pleaseeeee,” he whines. 

 The bathroom is full of steam and you can see the outline of Shawn’s body though the frosted glass shower. You sit on the edge of the sink, letting your legs dangle off the edge, “so what did you need me so badly for?” 

 Shawn’s head pops out when he cracks open the shower door, “just missed you. Come here!” He reaches out with a grabby hand.

 “God, what?” You jump off the counter and stride over to the open shower door. 

 Careful not to look too far south you stand in front of him with your hands on your hips. 

 “Are those my clothes?” He asks. 

 You nod, “yeah, wasn’t about to sleep in my wet ones.” 

 Shawn smiles wide, “I know a way that’ll make them look better.” 

 Before you can formulate a response, he’s pulling you into the shower, your back pressed against the tiled wall. You can feel its hard chill against your back. 

 “Shawn! What the FUCK!” You yell, slapping his chest. 

 For the second time tonight, your clothing is drenched. 

 He takes a step to close the gap between you, his chest pressed into you. You watch the water cascade down his shoulders and disappear behind his back as his wet hair drops fat beads of water onto you.

 “What are you doing?” You ask, your voice just barely a whisper. 

 Shawn curls his index finger and rests it under your chin, forcing your face up to look at him, “we gotta talk.” 

 “We’ve been talking all night -” 

 “I love you,” he blurts. 

 It’s not the first time he’s said it, not by any means. You’re best friends. It’s a normal thing to say to your best friend. 

 “Yes Shawn I love you too -” 

 He cuts you off again, but this time with a kiss. Your whole body freezes and your legs go numb. There’s a brief ringing in your ears and slowly it fades from static until you’re crash landed back onto planet Earth and the sounds of the shower are echoing around the two of you, his lips moving slowly and precisely against yours.

 You place both hands on his chest to push him away, “Shawn, you’re drunk, you aren’t thinking straight.” 

 Your mind is a mess. Part of you is screaming that it’s real, and it’s finally happening. All the while the other is convincing you every which way that he’s just out of his goddamn mind drunk.

 Shawn holds your face in both hands, “I’m not, I’m in love with you. Always have been and don’t act stupid because I know you are too. It just had to be one of us that finally did something about it.” 

 He gives you another kiss and it’s just as tender as the first one. Shawn leaves one hand on your face, and lets the other roam, staring at your hip, and sliding up the back of your wet shirt. 

 “Hold up,” you interrupt, his eyes still closed and lips still pressed together when you poke a finger into his chest, “you weren’t drunk at all this whole time?” 

 Shawn shakes his head. 

 “You absolute asshole!” You stomp, and he pulls you in flush against him for a hug. 

 “That’s my girl.” 

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hello friends! this was a fun lil blurb to write tonight after a stressful day at work. i hope everyone else has as much fun with it as i did writing it. let me know what you think! :)