Chapter 6: 2 Am Visit
The bang on the door wasn't polite knocking. It was a thudding, rhythmic assault, shaking the cheap plywood in its frame. Derek jolted upright in his narrow single bed, the worn paperback copy of Dune slipping from his fingers onto the scratchy dorm comforter. His heart hammered against his ribs. 2:07 AM glared from his alarm clock. Who the hell…?
"Dereeeeek!" The voice was muffled but unmistakably Peter’s, thick and clumsy. "Open up, man! S'me!"
Derek scrambled out of bed, stumbling slightly in the dark. He flicked on the harsh overhead light and wrenched the door open. Peter Kavinsky stood swaying in the corridor, bathed in the sickly yellow glow. He leaned heavily against the doorjamb, a wide, unfocused grin splitting his face. The smell hit Derek first – a potent, cloying mix of cheap beer, sweat, and an aggressively sweet cologne that made his nostrils flare.
"Heyyy," Peter slurred, pushing past Derek without invitation. He stumbled into the small room, his movements exaggeratedly loose. His usually immaculate hair was a chaotic mess, his eyes glassy and bloodshot, but that disarming smile was still there, turned up to maximum wattage. "Missed you at the bash, man. Serious void. Massive." He gestured vaguely towards the hall with a sloppy wave.
Derek shut the door, the silence of the dormitory settling back around them, now thick with the invasive scent of Peter’s night out. "What are you doing here, Kavinsky?" Derek asked, his voice rough with sleep.
"Told you," Peter declared, turning unsteadily. His gaze landed on the bed. "Oh, perfect." He shuffled forward and collapsed face-first onto Derek’s unmade sheets with a heavy sigh that ruffled the pages of Dune lying there. He kicked his expensive sneakers off haphazardly, one landing near the desk, the other bumping the wall. "God, your bed is way comfier than mine. Like sleeping on a cloud. A… supportive cloud."
Derek stood rooted near the door, watching the long lines of Peter’s body sprawled diagonally across his small bed, taking up most of the space. The cheap cologne mixed nauseatingly with the beer fumes. "You reek," Derek stated flatly.
Peter just groaned into the pillow, then rolled clumsily onto his back, blinking up at the cracked plaster ceiling. "Was epic," he mumbled, a dreamy smile spreading again. "Omega Nu knows how to rage on a Thursday. Like, why wait for Friday, right? Rule-breakers." He hiccuped softly. "You shoulda been there. Erica kept asking where you were. Said she had a mandatory socialization order." He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "Told her you probably got lost in your book cave again." He patted the mattress beside him blindly. "Sit down. Tell Derek the tales."
Derek hesitated. The scent was overwhelming. Peter was clearly obliterated. But there was something strangely compelling about his messy, exuberant presence filling the quiet room. Derek cautiously perched on the very edge of the bed, near Peter’s feet, picking up his book and setting it aside on the nightstand, unopened. "What tales?"
Peter launched in, his words tumbling over each other, punctuated by pauses and hiccups. "Okay, so… Boyd tried to do a keg stand? Epic fail. Like, immediate face plant. Boom. Right into the… into the inflatable cactus. Someone brought an inflatable cactus? Weird." He giggled, a surprisingly light, infectious sound. "Then! Then Jessica Li got locked in the bathroom. For like, an hour? Kept yelling ‘It’s not me!’ every time someone knocked. Classic." He paused, catching his breath. "And Mark Peterson? Yeah, him? Tried to hit on that terrifying senior, Victoria? From the fencing team? She just… stared him down. Like, stared. Until he backed away into the punch bowl. Icing everywhere. Glorious."
Despite himself, a small chuckle escaped Derek. The image of stoic Boyd face-planting into an inflatable cactus was absurdly vivid in Peter’s retelling.
Peter beamed, seeing Derek’s reaction. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, swaying slightly. "See! Told you it was fun." His gaze landed on Derek, sharpening slightly, though his eyes remained unfocused.
Peter’s grin softened into something less manic, more contemplative. He squinted at Derek, his head lolling slightly against the pillow. "Whatcha reading?" he slurred, his gaze drifting towards the book on the nightstand. "Dune? Sounds... dusty." A chuckle rumbled low in his chest.
"Yeah," Derek mumbled, shifting his weight on the thin mattress edge. The bed felt impossibly small with Peter’s large frame sprawled across it. "Just finishing it." He avoided looking directly at Peter’s flushed face, focusing instead on a loose thread on his own sweatpants.
Peter hummed, a low, contented sound. He seemed to be sinking deeper into the pillow, his eyelids fluttering heavily. "Good book," he murmured, though it sounded automatic. A silence stretched, thick with the smell of beer and that cloying cologne, undercut by the quiet hum of the dorm at night. Peter’s breathing hitched slightly. "Hey," he said, his voice suddenly clearer, cutting through the haze. "You still... comin' Friday? To the Omega Nu thing?"
Derek’s heart gave a stupid little jump. He hadn’t actually forgotten his reluctant agreement at Mario’s, but the reality of it, amplified by Peter’s drunk intensity in his dark bedroom, felt different. Heavy. "Yeah," he managed, the word clipped. "Said I would."
A wide, genuine smile spread across Peter’s face, slow and warm like honey. "Good," he breathed, the tension visibly leaving his shoulders as he relaxed further into Derek's pillow. "S’really good." His eyes drifted shut, then flickered open once more, struggling to focus on Derek’s face in the dim light filtering from the hallway under the door. "Your eyes... look... really... dark right now," he mumbled, the words slurring together, thick and slow. "Like... whole... face is... just..." His voice trailed off entirely, the sentence dissolving into incoherence. A soft sigh escaped his lips as his head tilted to the side, utterly still. The rise and fall of his chest deepened, settling into the steady rhythm of sleep.
Derek sat frozen on the edge of his own bed. Peter Kavinsky was asleep. In his bed. Reeking of beer and cheap cologne, sprawled out like he owned the place. The mumbled words about his eyes and face echoed in the sudden quiet, landing with unexpected weight in the silent room. He stared at the sharp line of Peter’s jaw, relaxed now, the tousled hair falling over his forehead. The proximity felt dangerous. Electrifying. He should move. Push him off. Claim the floor. Anything.
He didn’t move. The thud of his own pulse in his ears was loud in the stillness. Carefully, slowly, he shifted his weight, easing himself backwards onto the narrow strip of mattress Peter wasn’t occupying. He lay rigidly on his side, facing the wall, putting a few precious inches between his back and Peter’s sleeping form. The heat radiating from Peter was intense even through their clothes. Derek stared at the cracked paint on the wall, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of Peter’s breathing. Friday felt suddenly very real. And Peter’s sleepy, fragmented words – just... face is... just... – looped in his mind, refusing to fade even as exhaustion finally pulled him under too.