Chapter 28: Chapter 28
The walk back from the river was a silent, shivering procession. Their damp clothes clung to them like cold second skins, and every gust of wind off the water cut straight to the bone. Leo’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering; the violent clicks echoed in his jaw. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the gravel crunching a monotonous rhythm under his soaked shoes.
Next to him, Alex walked with his arms wrapped tightly around his torso, head down. His hair was a dark, dripping helmet. He hadn’t spoken since they’d dragged themselves out of the water.
Emily and Reed walked ahead, leaning into each other for warmth and stability. Leroy brought up the rear, whistling a tuneless, chattering noise between his own shivers. The city lights grew brighter, the roar of the river fading into the background hum of a late Portland night.
They reached the first cross-street, the fluorescent glow of a 24-hour convenience store spilling across the wet pavement. It was a beacon of terrible coffee, frozen burritos, and, most importantly, warmth.
“We need to get dry,” Reed stated, her voice flat. “Or we’ll actually die. Statistically.”
“My place is closest,” Alex said, the words emerging stiffly. He didn’t look at Leo. He was staring at the glowing sign of the store. “It’s a disaster zone, but there’s heat. And towels. Maybe.”
The idea of going back to the source of everything felt like stepping backward into a cold, dark room. But the alternative—splitting up, going home alone to their own separate silences—felt worse. The river had bound them together in its brutal, cleansing grip. Breaking that now seemed impossible.
Leroy nodded toward the store. “We should get supplies. For fortification.”
“Food,” Emily said, her voice hopeful. “Greasy, terrible food.”
“And whisky,” Alex said. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a declaration. He finally looked at Leo, his eyes still holding that strange, calm clarity from the water. “A bottle. To take with us. To… to continue.”
There it was. The momentum, fragile as an ice sheet, needed to be maintained. Stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant feeling. The whisky was a bridge, a way to keep the numbing, unifying buzz alive a little longer. Leo found himself nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”
The convenience store air was aggressively warm and smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. Under the harsh lights, they looked like shipwreck survivors. The clerk, a bored kid with face tattoos, barely glanced up from his phone as they shuffled in, leaving faint, damp footprints on the linoleum.
They moved through the aisles in a loose, silent pack. Leroy grabbed a family-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips. Emily procured a lurid orange cheese dip and a box of generic wheat crackers. Reed went for practicality: a giant bottle of water and a pack of cheap, white towels from a sad-looking household section.
Leo and Alex converged at the liquor shelf. The selection was bleak: plastic bottles of gut-rot vodka, sugary flavored rums, and a few middle-shelf whiskies gathering dust. Alex’s hand hovered over a bottle of Jameson. His fingers were still pale and pruned from the river.
“This one,” he said, pulling it down. It was familiar. It was what they’d been drinking last night, at the start of everything. A callback, deliberate or not.
Leo didn’t argue. He took the bottle from Alex’s hands. The glass was cool and smooth. “You sure?”
“No,” Alex said, and almost smiled. “But it’s what we have.”
They paid in a jumble of wet dollar bills and rattling change, stuffing their acquisitions into plastic bags that seemed pathetically flimsy. The walk to Alex’s apartment was only five blocks, but it felt longer. The cold was settling deep into their joints now, a dull, persistent ache. The adrenaline of the plunge was gone, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion.
Alex fumbled with his keys at the main door of his building, his hands shaking too badly to find the right one. Leo took them from him, their fingers brushing—a shock of cold on cold—and unlocked it.
The stairwell smelled of old carpet and mildew, a familiar, slightly depressing scent. They trudged up to the second floor. Alex paused outside his door, his shoulders tense. For a second, Leo thought he might not go in. That the memory of what happened on the other side was a physical barrier.
Then Alex pushed the door open and flicked on the light.
It was exactly as they’d left it, yet completely different. The morning sun had been cruel, revealing the mess. Now, in the soft yellow glow of the overhead lamp, it just looked sad and tired. The overturned plant soil was a dark smear on the hardwood. The rug was still pushed into a bunched heap against the baseboard. A single, lonely coffee cup stood on the counter, a relic from a lifetime ago.
A strange, collective pause held them in the doorway. They were all seeing it, Leo knew. The ghost of the night, preserved.
Alex walked in first, dropping his keys on the counter with a clatter. He went straight to the thermostat and cranked it. The baseboard heaters along the wall clicked on, promising warmth. “Towels are in the hall closet,” he said, his back to them. “Bathroom’s there if anyone wants to… you know. Try to get warm.”
It broke the spell. They shuffled in, shedding their wet jackets and shoes by the door, creating a pathetic damp pile. Reed distributed the thin towels. They were small and scratchy, but they were dry. Leo rubbed one over his head, his hair sticking up in wild, damp spikes.
Emily and Leroy descended on the kitchen, tearing open the chips and cheese dip with the fervor of scavengers. The crinkling of bags and the scrape of a knife on a plate were the only sounds.
Alex took the bottle of whisky from the plastic bag. He unscrewed the cap, the sound loud in the quiet apartment, and took a long, direct swallow. He winced as it went down, then held the bottle out to Leo.
Leo took it. The whisky burned a familiar, welcome path down his throat, a central heating system for his insides. He passed it to Reed, who was now sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch. She took a swig, her face impassive.
They migrated to the living room, a slow, organic drift. Leroy and Emily took the couch. Reed stayed on the floor, her back against it. Alex lowered himself into the single armchair, pulling his knees up to his chest. Leo sat on the other end of the couch, leaving a careful cushion of space between himself and Emily.
The bottle made its first circuit in silence, punctuated only by the crunch of chips and the low rumble of the heating system finally pushing warm air into the room. The towels around their shoulders began to steam slightly.
On the second pass, Leroy finally spoke. “So. That was a thing. The river.”
“It was cold,” Emily said, dipping a cracker into the neon orange goo. “I think I lost a nipple. It just snapped off like an icicle and floated away.”
A weak, grateful laugh rippled through the room. It was a release of pressure, tiny but significant.
“It was good, though,” Reed said softly, staring at the bottle in her hands. “In a messed-up, potentially lethal way. It was… necessary.”
Alex was watching the dark window, his face reflected in the glass. “It washed the smell away,” he said, so quietly they almost didn’t hear him.
Leo knew what he meant. Not just the smell of sick, or the bar, but the metallic scent of panic, the cloying sweetness of spilled drinks gone sticky, the sour tang of shame. The river had scoured them all.
The bottle came to him again. He drank, feeling the warmth spread through his chest, loosening the tight coil of anxiety that had lived there for days. The silence now was companionable, thick with shared, unspoken understanding. They were here, in the wreckage, but they were here together. The night was no longer a behind them; it was a landscape they were slowly, carefully, navigating through, with this bottle as their dim, shared compass.
The apartment, for all its ghosts, began to feel like a sanctuary. The heaters groaned, the chips were salty and terrible, the whisky was a slow-burning fuse. Outside, the city slept. In here, they were awake, thawing, and for the first time in a long while, not one of them was alone.
The damp clung to them like a second skin all the way back to Alex’s apartment. Their hair was stiffening into strange shapes, their clothes plastered uncomfortably to their bodies, chafing with every step. The collective shivering had subsided into a deep, internal chill that whiskey seemed like the only logical answer to.
“I can still feel the river in my ears,” Reed complained, shaking her head like a wet dog as they stumbled into Alex’s living room. The space was a testament to chaotic creativity—music posters layered over paint samples, a disassembled bicycle leaning against one wall, a guitar missing two strings propped in a corner. It smelled of turpentine, old coffee, and now, wet river.
“That’s called water,” Leroy said, already beelining for the small kitchen. He opened cabinets with the authority of a frequent visitor. “The cure is more of the thing that got us into this mess. Scientific fact.”
“That makes no sense,” Emily said, peeling her sodden sweater over her head with a wet suck. She stood in her tank top, arms crossed over her chest. “But I’m too cold to argue. Got anything that isn’t whiskey?”
“Vodka,” Alex called from his bedroom, his voice muffled. “The cheap, kind that tastes like rubbing alcohol and regret.” He emerged wearing dry sweatpants and tossing a mismatched pile of clothing into the living room—threadbare band t-shirts, a flannel, a pair of gym shorts. “Dry stuff. Might smell like me.”
The process of changing was slow, clumsy. They moved around each other in the cramped space, damp garments hitting the floor, replaced by Alex’s borrowed clothes. Leo pulled on a soft, faded t-shirt for a band he’d never heard of. It smelled faintly of Alex’s deodorant and graphite. He felt oddly vulnerable again, but in a warmer, softer way.
Leroy returned with a bottle of clear liquid and five mismatched glasses. He poured generous glugs, not bothering with ice or mixers. “To not dying of hypothermia,” he said, handing them out.
“To ghost toes,” Reed added, clinking her glass against his.
The first sip was a fire that burned away the last of the river’s chill. It was terrible. It was perfect. They drank it fast, wincing in unison, the heat blooming in their stomachs.
Another round followed. Then another.
The bottle leveled quickly. Alex produced a second, this one amber liquid in a bottle with no label. “My neighbor’s experimental gin,” he announced. “He calls it ‘Botanical Uncertainty.’ I call it ‘Pine Sol with aspirations.’”
They drank that too.
The room began to soften at the edges. The harsh overhead light Alex had flicked on became a warm, blurry sun. The damp pile of their clothes in the corner ceased to be a sad monument and became a hilarious sculpture. Laughter came easier, louder, unhinged from the night’s earlier tensions.
Leo found himself on the floor, his back against the couch, legs stretched out. Reed was braiding and unbraiding a section of the shag rug. Emily and Leroy were debating, with intense, drunken seriousness, whether a hot dog was a sandwich.
“It’s meat in bread!” Leroy insisted, sloshing his gin.
“It’s a dog! A singular category! You don’t call a taco a sandwich!” Emily fired back, poking him in the chest.
Alex slid down the wall to sit beside Leo, their shoulders touching. He held out the gin bottle. Leo took it, their fingers brushing. He drank directly from the bottle this time, the juniper taste like chewing on a Christmas tree. He passed it back. Alex drank, his throat working. He didn’t pass it on. He held it between them like a shared secret.
“The floor is better than the river,” Alex mumbled, his words beginning to slur into each other.
“Warmer,” Leo agreed, his own tongue feeling thick and reliable.
“No. Better.” Alex turned his head, his eyes glassy but focused. “The river washed off the outside. The floor… that was inside stuff. Coming out.” He took another swig. “Messy. Ugly. But out.”
Leo didn’t know what to say. The alcohol was a warm, buzzing blanket, smothering his ability to form complex thoughts. He just nodded, leaning a little more heavily against Alex. The contact was solid, real.
The conversation in the room swirled and fragmented. Reed was now demonstrating, with great effort, how she thought a seagull would wear a tiny hat. Leroy was crying laughing, tears streaming down his face.
Another bottle appeared. Wine this time. A cheap, sweet red that stained their lips purple. They drank it from coffee mugs.
Time dissolved into a series of vivid, disconnected moments. Leo remembered laughing so hard at something Emily said that he couldn’t breathe, clutching his stomach. He remembered Leroy trying to play the broken guitar, producing sounds that were less music and more emotional distress. He remembered Reed, very solemnly, placing a couch cushion on her head like a crown and declaring herself the Queen of Bad Decisions.
He remembered the exact moment the world began to tilt. It was a subtle shift, like the room was a boat on a gentle swell. He looked at Alex, who was staring into his purple-stained mug as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
“I’m insanely drunk,” Alex announced, not to anyone, just to the air.
“We all are,” Leo said, and it was true. The initial warm buzz had metastasized into a full-blown, debilitating intoxication. His thoughts swam in syrup. Moving his head required planning.
“Good,” Alex said. He let his head loll back against the wall, looking at Leo upside down. His smile was crooked, unguarded, beautiful. “You should be. With me.”
The simplicity of it punched through the drunken haze. Leo felt a surge of something fierce and protective, mixed with the overwhelming, dizzying fondness of the inebriated. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and took Alex’s hand. Their purple-stained fingers laced together.
Across the room, Emily had fallen asleep sitting up, her chin on her chest. Leroy was using her shoulder as a pillow, snoring softly. Reed was curled on the couch, the cushion-crown askew on her head.
The party was over. It was just them now, in the wreckage. Empty bottles stood sentinel on the coffee table. The pile of wet clothes had begun to smell vaguely of the river and mildew. The single bulb overhead hummed.
Alex’s grip on his hand tightened. “Don’t let go,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “Even if I puke. Which is… a distinct possibility.”
“Noted,” Leo whispered back. The room swayed. He closed his eyes, anchoring himself to the point of contact—their joined hands, the solid press of Alex’s shoulder against his. The inside stuff was out. The outside stuff was washed away. All that was left was this warm, spinning, messy darkness, and the uncomplicated weight of Alex’s hand in his.
He held on.
The walk back to Alex’s apartment was a silent, shivering procession. The river’s chill had seeped into their marrow, and the adrenaline that had propelled them into the water and back out was now a distant memory, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep fatigue. They moved like ghosts through the familiar streets, their damp clothes clinging to them, the smell of the Willamette—algae and cold mineral—rising from their skin.
No one spoke. The roar of the water was still in their ears, a white noise that made conversation feel unnecessary, an intrusion. Leo focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the friction of his wet jeans chafing his thighs. Beside him, Alex was a hunched silhouette, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his borrowed hoodie.
Alex’s apartment building loomed, a bland brick rectangle. They filed into the dim lobby, the sudden warmth of the interior air making them all shudder violently. The elevator ride to the fourth floor was spent staring at the numbers lighting up in sequence, watching their own ragged reflections in the brushed metal doors.
The apartment was exactly as they’d left it hours before, but it felt like a different planet. The stale, sour smell from earlier was gone, or maybe they were just too cold to smell anything. The broken lamp had been pushed into a corner, the rug straightened. It was just a room again, tired and ordinary.
“Towels,” Alex muttered, his voice hoarse. He disappeared down the short hallway and returned with an armload of mismatched towels, dropping them on the back of the sofa. “They’re not huge, but.”
They descended on the towels, rubbing roughly at hair, scrubbing skin through damp fabric. Leroy toed off his soaked shoes by the radiator. Reed found a blanket draped over a chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, sinking to the floor with a groan. Emily stood by the kitchen counter, staring into space, mechanically drying her arms.
“I’m making tea,” Leo announced, the need for a simple, warm task overwhelming him. He filled Alex’s kettle, clicking the stove on. The blue flame was a tiny, focused point of heat in the cool, dim kitchen.
The domestic sound of the kettle heating, the soft rustle of towels, the occasional shuddering sigh—these small noises began to stitch the night back into something manageable. Leo pulled mugs from a cupboard, finding a box of peppermint tea. He didn’t ask; he just prepared five mugs, the ritual calming his own jangling nerves.
He passed them out. Leroy took his with a grateful nod. Emily wrapped her hands around the ceramic, closing her eyes as the steam touched her face. Reed sipped, then rested her head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Alex took his mug from Leo, their fingers brushing. His were still icy.
They drank in silence. The tea was a hot line from throat to stomach, a counterpoint to the deep cold. One by one, the empty mugs found homes on coasters, on the floor, on the windowsill.
Leroy was the first to go. He slid sideways on the sofa, his head lolling against a cushion. A soft, congested snore escaped him seconds later. Emily, still wrapped in the blanket, curled into a armchair, her breathing deepening into sleep almost immediately. Reed, from her spot on the floor, simply stopped moving, her body going slack in the way only true exhaustion allows.
Leo watched them surrender. The fight was gone. The chaos, the performative energy, the river’s defiant shock—all of it had burned away, leaving only this pure, animal need for rest. He looked at Alex, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching the same scene.
“You should sleep too,” Leo said, his voice low.
“Can’t,” Alex whispered. He looked wired, his eyes too bright in the faint light from the streetlamp outside the window. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in the water. Or before the water.”
Leo understood. The cold had been a temporary eraser. Now, in the warm, quiet apartment, the memories were seeping back in, searching for a foothold. He walked over to the window, standing beside Alex. They looked down at the empty street, the pools of orange light.
“It was a good idea,” Leo said. “The river.”
“It was a terrible idea,” Alex corrected, but a faint smile touched his lips. “But it was ours.”
He turned to look at Leo. The proximity was sudden, charged. Leo could see the faint waterline still marking Alex’s hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the pale, clean column of his throat. The scent of river water and cheap peppermint soap clung to him.
The space between them evaporated.
It wasn’t a decision. It was a gravitational pull. Alex’s mouth found Leo’s with a desperate, searching hunger. It tasted of mint and cold and something deeper, something raw and unchanneled. Leo met it, his hands coming up to frame Alex’s face, his thumbs brushing over the high, sharp planes of his cheekbones. The kiss was nothing like the frantic, messy collision from the party. This was concentrated, intense, a silent conversation of lips and tongue and shared breath.
Alex made a low sound in his throat, part relief, part need, and pushed forward, walking Leo backwards until his shoulders met the cool wall beside the window. The pressure was delicious, anchoring. Leo slid his hands into Alex’s damp hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Every point of contact—chest to chest, hip to hip—was a live wire.
They broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together. Alex’s eyes were wide, pupils blown in the dark.
“Leo,” he breathed, just his name, and it was a question, an apology, a plea.
In answer, Leo kissed him again, softer now, a promise. He took Alex’s hand and led him, silently, past their sleeping friends, down the short hallway to the bedroom. Alex closed the door behind them, the click of the latch final.
The room was dark, lit only by the same ambient street glow. Clothes became obstacles to be removed not with frenzy, but with a slow, deliberate urgency. A damp shirt dropped to the floor. Jeans, still slightly cool, were pushed down and stepped out of. The air was cool on their skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the river.
They tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and heat. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, only the profound relief of touch without subtext, without history. Leo mapped the territory of Alex’s body with his hands and mouth—the solid weight of him, the surprising softness of his stomach, the tense curve of his shoulder where stress lived. Alex arched into the touch, his own hands roaming, learning, claiming.
It was passionate, but it was quiet. Their sounds were muffled against skin, swallowed by kisses. It was a dialogue of gasps and shudders, a physical argument that reached only one possible, exquisite conclusion. The world narrowed to the space of the rumpled sheets, to the feel of calloused hands and smooth skin, to the shared rhythm of their breathing.
After, they lay tangled in the dark, slick with sweat, the comforter kicked to the foot of the bed. The only sound was their slowing heartbeats, syncing in the quiet dark. Alex’s head was on Leo’s chest, his arm a heavy, warm weight across Leo’s stomach.
Leo stared at the ceiling, feeling the reality of it settle into his muscles, his bones. The frantic energy that had clung to Alex since the party, since the rug, was gone. In its place was a spent, heavy calm. He ran his fingers through Alex’s hair, over and over, a soothing, absent rhythm.
Outside, a car passed, its headlights painting a slow arc across the ceiling and then vanishing. In the living room, someone—Leroy, probably—snorted in their sleep and fell silent again.
Alex shifted, tilting his head back to look up at Leo. His expression was unguarded, soft with exhaustion and something else, something fragile and new. He didn’t speak. He just looked, as if memorizing the angle of Leo’s jaw in the half-light.
Leo met his gaze. He didn’t smile. He just let his hand still, cupping the back of Alex’s head, holding him there. The chill was finally gone, burned away from the inside out. For the first time that night, in the deep, listening silence of the apartment, Leo felt truly warm.
The chill from the river had seeped into his bones, but now, with Alex’s weight pressed against him, it was melting away. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, their bodies a tangle of limbs, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.
Alex’s mouth found Leo’s again, slow and deliberate, his tongue tracing the seam of Leo’s lips before pushing inside. Leo groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down Alex’s back, pulling him closer. The heat between them was electric, a live wire sparking at every point of contact.
“Fuck,” Alex gasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to press his forehead against Leo’s. They both soon came in their underwear , their cocks rubbing together, sticky and desperate. “I need you inside me,” Alex whispered, his voice rough with need. “Now.”
Leo didn’t need to be told twice. He rolled Alex onto his back, pinning him with his weight, his mouth crashing down on Alex’s again. Their tongues tangled, wet and hungry, as Leo’s hands roamed over Alex’s body—his broad shoulders, his soft stomach, the hard length of his cock pressing against Leo’s thigh.
“Lube,” Alex panted, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. “Top drawer.”
Leo fumbled for it, his fingers shaking as he pulled out the bottle.
The cool liquid slithered over his skin as he squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. Alex’s breath hitched as Leo’s hand slid between his thighs, his fingers pressing against the tight, puckered muscle.
“Fuck, Leo,” Alex moaned, his hips jerking up. “Don’t tease me.”
Leo didn’t. He pushed in, slow at first, letting Alex adjust to the stretch. The heat of him was intoxicating, his body clenching around Leo’s fingers like a vice. He curled them, searching for that spot that made Alex’s breath hitch, his fingers digging into Leo’s shoulders.
“There,” Alex gasped, his head falling back against the pillow.
“Right there, fuck—”
Leo’s fingers curled deeper, rubbing that spot with deliberate pressure. Alex’s cock twitched against his stomach, already leaking, his hips rolling up to meet the motion. The sight of him—flushed, trembling, his lips parted and wet—made Leo’s own dick ache. He needed to be inside him, needed to feel that tight, hot clench around his cock.
“You’re so fucking ready for me,” Leo growled, his voice rough. He pulled his fingers out, slick and glistening, and Alex whined at the loss. Leo lined himself up, pressing just the tip against Alex’s entrance.
The heat of him was electric, the tight ring of muscle resisting before giving way with a slow, delicious slide. Alex gasped, his fingers digging into Leo’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. The sensation of being inside him—hot, slick, impossibly tight—made Leo’s vision blur. He had to pause, had to breathe, or he’d lose it right then.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” Leo groaned, his voice rough with need. He pushed in another inch, feeling Alex’s body stretch around him, the resistance turning into a slow, wet surrender. Alex’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, his nails raking down Leo’s back.
“More,” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “Fuck me, Leo. Don’t stop.”
Leo didn’t need to be told twice. He thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt, his hips pressing flush against Alex’s ass. The tight heat of him was overwhelming, a perfect, suffocating grip that made his vision swim. He stayed buried deep, letting Alex adjust, his cock pulsing inside him.
Alex moaned, his thighs trembling. “Fuck, you’re so deep,” he whimpered, his fingers twisting in the sheets.
“Move, Leo. Please—”
Leo didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled back slowly, savoring the way Alex’s body clung to him, then slammed forward again, hard enough to make the headboard rattle against the wall. Alex cried out, his back arching, his cock leaking against his stomach.
“Harder,” he gasped, his voice rough with need. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
Leo growled, his hands gripping Alex’s hips hard enough to leave marks. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving him deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Alex met him thrust for thrust, his body trembling with the force of it.
"Fuck, Leo, right there—" he gasped, his fingers clawing at the sheets. The bed shook beneath them, the headboard banging against the wall in a staccato rhythm that matched Leo's relentless pace.
Leo leaned down, his chest pressing against Alex's back, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. "You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice rough with need. "You love taking my cock like this."
Alex whimpered, his hips bucking back to meet every brutal thrust. "Yes, fuck—yes, I love it—"
Leo's hand snaked around his waist, gripping his cock tightly.
"You want to come like this, don't you? With my cock buried deep inside you?"
Alex could only whimper in response, his body trembling as Leo's fingers worked him in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming—his ass stretched tight around Leo's cock, his dick being stroked with rough, demanding strokes. He was so close, his balls already tight, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Fuck, Leo—fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Come for me," Leo growled, his voice low and commanding. And Alex did as commanded , his cock pulsing in Leo's grip as hot, sticky cum spurted across his stomach, his ass clenching down on Leo's cock like a vice. The sensation was too much—Leo groaned, his thrusts growing erratic as his own orgasm crashed over him, his cock twitching deep inside Alex, filling him with thick, hot spurts.
They collapsed together, sweaty and spent, Leo's weight pressing Alex into the mattress. For a long moment, neither of them moved, their bodies still connected, their breath coming in ragged gasps.
Then Leo pulled out slowly, the wet, obscene sound making Alex shiver.
His cock was still hard, still slick with lube and cum, and he couldn’t resist the urge to press it against the crease of Alex’s thigh, leaving a sticky trail as he moved. Alex groaned, his fingers flexing against the sheets.
“Fuck, you’re a mess,” Leo murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. He leaned down, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up the side of Alex’s neck, tasting salt and sweat. “My mess.” Do you have any more alcohol, Alex asked?
I don’t think I’m ready to sleep yet.”
Leo watched as Alex sat up, his body still glistening with sweat, the sheets tangled around his waist. The dim light from the streetlamp outside cast long shadows across his chest, highlighting the sharp angles of his collarbones and the soft curve of his stomach. He looked different now—less guarded, more open. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since the party was gone, replaced by something softer, something vulnerable.
“Yeah,” Alex said, running a hand through his hair. “I think there’s a half bottle of vodka in the freezer.
Or maybe it’s gin,” Alex said, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t remember. I think I was drinking it to forget.”
Leo chuckled, rolling onto his side to prop his head on his hand. “That’s the worst reason to drink.”
“It’s the only reason to drink,” Alex countered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, stretching his arms above his head, his back muscles flexing. “You coming?”
Leo hesitated, watching the way the light caught the curve of Alex’s spine. “I don’t know. Should I?”
Alex glanced back, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Depends.
You want more of that or you want to see what else we can find?” Alex’s grin was lazy, unguarded, the kind of smile that only comes after a body has been thoroughly used and thoroughly pleased. He didn’t wait for an answer, just padded naked toward the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor.
Leo watched him go, his gaze lingering on the way Alex’s hips swayed slightly with each step. The man moved like he knew exactly how his body looked from behind, like he’d practiced that particular roll of the shoulder in the mirror. Leo’s cock twitched against his thigh, already stirring back to life.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, watching the way Alex’s ass flexed as he moved. The man was a walking invitation, all loose-limbed confidence and unapologetic nudity. Leo had never been one for instant gratification—he preferred his pleasure slow, deliberate, savored like a good whiskey—but something about Alex made him want to throw all that out the window.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets cool against his skin. His own body was still humming from the first round, his muscles loose and his skin sensitive. The air smelled like sex and sweat and the faint metallic tang of the river that still clung to their hair.
Leo stretched, his back popping as he sat up, the sheets slipping off his bare chest. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside. Somewhere in the living room, one of their friends was snoring softly.
Alex reappeared in the doorway, a half-empty bottle of something clear and a pair of mismatched glasses in hand. His hair was tousled, his bare chest still flushed from their earlier exertions. He grinned when he saw Leo watching him.
"Found it," he said, holding up the bottle. "Turns out it was gin after all. My neighbor’s homemade stuff.
He calls it ‘Botanical Uncertainty’—I call it ‘liquid regret.’” He set the bottle and glasses on the bedside table with a clink. “But it’s cold, and it’s wet, and it’s something to do with our hands besides fucking each other into oblivion.”
Leo laughed, the sound rough from disuse. “You’re a poet.”
“Only when I’m drunk,” Alex said, flopping onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under his weight, rolling Leo toward him. Their shoulders touched, warm and solid. Alex reached for the bottle, unscrewing the cap with a satisfying pop. The scent of juniper and something herbal filled the air.
Alex poured two fingers of the gin into each glass, the liquid sloshing against the sides. He handed one to Leo, their fingers brushing—still warm from the bed, still humming with the aftershocks of what had just happened.
Leo took a sip. The gin was sharp, almost medicinal, with a lingering sweetness that reminded him of pine needles and summer rain. He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ. That’s strong."
Alex grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "Told you." He took a longer drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. "But it’s good, right?
Like, the kind of thing you’d drink if you were trying to forget something but also remember it at the same time," Alex said, swirling the gin in his glass. The ice cubes clinked softly, a sound that seemed too delicate for the weight of the moment.
Leo took another sip, letting the burn settle in his chest. "I think I’m too drunk to forget anything," he admitted, leaning back against the headboard. The sheets were still warm from their bodies, the scent of sex and sweat lingering in the air. Outside, the city hummed softly, a distant lullaby of traffic and distant laughter.
Alex chuckled, setting his glass down on the nightstand.
They got progressively more drunk until the room started spinning. Leo felt his body grow heavy, his limbs leaden. The gin had done its job—his thoughts were fuzzy, his edges blurred. He could feel the weight of the night pressing down on him, the river, the sex, the way Alex’s body had moved beneath him. It was all too much, and yet not enough.
Alex was still talking, his words slurring slightly, his hand resting on Leo’s thigh. “You’re quiet,” he said, his thumb tracing idle circles on Leo’s skin. “You always do that. Like you’re thinking too hard.”
Leo exhaled, his breath shaky. “I’m not thinking.
I’m just…” Leo paused, searching for the right word. The gin had dulled his edges, but not enough to numb the weight of the night. “Processing.”
Alex’s thumb stilled on his thigh. “Processing what?”
“Everything.” Leo gestured vaguely with his glass, sloshing gin onto the sheets. “The river. The sex. The fact that I’m sitting here naked with you, and I don’t even know what this is.”
Alex blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy with drink. “What do you mean?”
Alex asked, his voice soft, his fingers still tracing slow circles on Leo’s thigh. The gin had made his pupils huge, swallowing the blue, but his gaze was steady. “You don’t know what this is?”
Leo exhaled, running a hand through his hair. The sheets were damp with sweat and gin, the air thick with the scent of sex and alcohol. “I mean—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I don’t know what this *means*.”
Alex tilted his head, considering. “Does it have to mean anything?”
Leo laughed, but it came out rough. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just—” He gestured between them. “This.
Us. Right now.” Leo’s fingers tightened around the glass, the condensation slick against his palm. The gin had dulled his edges but sharpened his awareness of Alex—his bare shoulder pressed against Leo’s, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinked. The room smelled like sweat and juniper, like skin and something deeper, something that had been simmering between them since the party.
Alex didn’t answer right away. He took a slow sip of his drink, his throat working. The ice clinked against the glass, the only sound in the heavy silence. Then he set it down carefully, his fingers lingering on the rim.
"You're overthinking it," he said finally, his voice softer now. "It doesn't have to mean anything. It can just be what it is."
Leo exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "And what is it?"
Alex turned to face him fully, his knee pressing against Leo's thigh. The sheets slipped lower, revealing the curve of his hip. "It's two people who needed something from each other," he said simply. "And now we've got it."
Leo studied his face, the way the streetlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble along his cheek. "Is that all it is?"
Alex's smile was slow, deliberate.
"Maybe," he said, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Leo's thigh. "Or maybe it's more. But I don't think we have to decide that right now."
The air between them was warm, charged with something unspoken. Leo's skin still tingled where Alex's fingers brushed against him, light as a whisper. The gin had softened the edges of his thoughts, but not enough to dull the way his pulse jumped when Alex looked at him like that.
"You're thinking too much again," Alex murmured, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of Leo's inner thigh. The touch was casual, almost absent-minded, but it sent a jolt of heat straight to Leo's gut.
He watched as Alex's fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on his thigh, the pressure just firm enough to make his breath catch. The gin had dulled his inhibitions but sharpened his awareness of every point of contact—the warmth of Alex's skin against his own, the way his breath hitched when their knees brushed.
"You're doing it again," Alex murmured, his voice rough with drink and something else, something deeper. His fingers stilled, pressing lightly into the soft flesh of Leo's inner thigh. "Overthinking."
Leo exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around his glass. The ice had melted, the gin now watered down but no less potent.
Leo swirled the last of it in his glass, watching the way the liquid clung to the sides before sliding back into a lazy pool. The room was spinning, but not in a bad way—more like the world had tilted just enough to make everything feel softer, slower, more forgiving.
Alex’s fingers were still tracing lazy circles on his thigh, the pressure just firm enough to make Leo’s breath catch. The gin had dulled his inhibitions but sharpened his awareness of every point of contact—the warmth of Alex’s skin against his own, the way his breath hitched when their knees brushed.
"You’re doing it again," Alex murmured, his voice rough with drink and something else, something deeper.
His fingers stilled, pressing lightly into the soft flesh of Leo’s inner thigh. The ice had melted, the gin now watered down but no less potent. "I’m not overthinking," he said, though the words came out slurred. "I’m just… trying to make sense of this."
Alex’s thumb traced a slow, deliberate path up the inside of Leo’s thigh, stopping just short of where Leo’s cock was already stirring to life again. "Does it need to make sense?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat and gin, the lingering heat of their earlier encounter still humming in the space where their bodies had been pressed together. Leo felt the weight of Alex’s gaze like a physical touch, his fingers still tracing slow, deliberate circles on the inside of his thigh.
Leo exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around his glass. "I don’t know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
The gin had loosened his tongue, but his thoughts were still tangled, a knot he couldn’t quite unravel. "I just—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. The room was spinning, but not in a bad way. It was like the world had tilted just enough to make everything feel softer, slower, more forgiving.
Alex’s thumb pressed a little harder against the inside of his thigh, just above the knee. The touch was electric, sending a jolt of heat straight to Leo’s gut. "You just what?" Alex prompted, his voice low and rough. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide in the dim light, and his lips were parted just enough to make Leo’s mouth water.
The air between them was thick with the scent of sex and gin, the lingering heat of their bodies still pressing against each other.
“You’re doing it again,” Alex murmured, his thumb pressing a little harder against the inside of Leo’s thigh. “Overthinking.”
Leo exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around his glass. “I’m not overthinking,” he said, though the words came out slurred. They finished the rest of the Gin and passed out on Alex's bed with Emily Reed and Leroy passed out in the living room .