Chapter 31: Chapter 31
The walk to Alex’s apartment was a slow-motion navigation of sidewalk cracks and sudden, silent laughter that hurt Leo’s head. Everything was too bright, even in the dark; the streetlights had halos, and car headlights left streaking scars on his vision. They didn’t speak. The only sound was their footsteps and the rustle of damp, whiskey-scented clothes. Alex fumbled with his keys at the door for a full minute, the metal scraping uselessly against the lock until Leo gently took them from his trembling hands and let them in.
The apartment smelled of stale coffee and turpentine. Alex kicked off his shoes, which hit the wall with two solid thuds. “Don’t look,” he mumbled, gesturing vaguely at the canvases leaning against every wall, chaotic splashes of color Leo had seen a hundred times before. They stumbled past them, down the short hall. Alex’s room was a cave of rumpled sheets and piled clothes. He didn’t turn on the light.
Leo’s body gave out the moment he felt the edge of the mattress. He toppled onto it, still mostly dressed, the room spinning in a slow, nauseating carousel. He heard Alex drop onto the other side, a groan escaping him as he landed. The distance between them on the wide mattress felt continental, charged and immense. Leo stared at the faint gray shape of the ceiling fan. His mouth was a desert. His skull pulsed a dull, rhythmic warning of the morning to come. He could hear Alex breathing, a ragged, awake sound.
“The river was a mistake,” Alex said to the darkness, his voice rough.
“Which part?” Leo whispered. “The jumping in or the crawling out?”
Alex didn’t answer. After a long time, his breathing evened into the shallow, unmistakable rhythm of drunk sleep. Leo lay awake, watching the light from a passing car slide across the ceiling, tracing the cracks he knew were there but couldn’t see.
Sunlight was a murder weapon. It sliced through the gap in Alex’s blackout curtains and directly into Leo’s left eye. He jerked awake with a gasp, a spike of pure pain drilling from his retina to the base of his skull. The movement was catastrophic. A wave of nausea rolled from his gut to his throat, sour and hot, accompanied by a dehydration headache that clamped his temples in a vise. His tongue was a piece of felt stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He was on top of the covers, still wearing his jeans and damp socks. The smell of river water and stale whiskey had fermented in the warm room, mingling with the familiar scent of Alex’s sleep. To his right, Alex was a motionless lump buried under a comforter, only a mess of brown hair visible.
A low, resonant groan echoed from the living room. It was followed by a thud and a hissed, “Oh, god.”
Leo carefully, so carefully, turned his head. Every muscle in his neck protested. The bedroom door was ajar. Through it, he could see a slice of the living room and the end of Alex’s battered corduroy sofa. A bare foot dangled over the armrest, twitching.
In the bedroom, Alex finally stirred. He emerged from the comforter like a creature from a bog, blinking slowly. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. He looked at Leo, recognition dawning with a visible wince. “Water,” he croaked. “I need water or I will literally die.”
“You first,” Leo managed, his own voice a stranger’s. “I think moving might kill me.”
Alex pushed himself up on one elbow and immediately gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth. He froze, eyes wide with panic, until the urge subsided. He took a shallow, careful breath. “Okay. No sudden moves.” He inched his way to the edge of the bed, each movement deliberate and pained. Standing was a monumental task. He swayed, bracing himself on the nightstand, his knuckles white.
Leo watched him shuffle out toward the kitchen, a portrait of human ruin. The sounds from the living room grew more specific. Muffled voices.
“My head is a church bell,” Emily moaned. “Someone is ringing it.”
“It’s your own fault,” Reed’s voice replied, tight and strained. “You drank that final shot like it was water.”
“You dared me!”
“I dared you to jump in a river, too, and you did that. You have a problem with authority.”
A cabinet door slammed in the kitchen, followed by Alex’s pained “Shhh!”
Leo finally summoned the will to sit up. The room tilted, then settled. He peeled off his disgusting socks and stood, his bare feet on the cool wood floor providing a single, small point of relief. He shuffled to the doorway.
The living room was a disaster zone. Emily was sprawled on the sofa, one arm flung over her eyes. She was still in last night’s clothes, her hair a spectacular wreck. Reed sat upright in the armchair, perfectly still, as if movement were a threat. She held a glass of water in both hands, staring into it with profound suspicion. Leroy was on the floor, propped against the wall, wearing only his jeans. He was very gently tapping his forehead against his kneecap.
“We’re all here,” Leo observed, his voice gravel.
“A reunion,” Reed said, not looking up. “How lovely.”
Alex returned from the kitchen, clutching four glasses of water. He distributed them like a nurse administering a critical antidote. No one spoke. The only sounds were gulping and the creak of the old sofa as Emily shifted.
The water was a miracle and a torment. It cleared the cobwebs but also highlighted the arid, poisoned landscape of Leo’s insides. His stomach churned ominously. He leaned against the doorframe, focusing on breathing.
“I have to ask,” Leroy said, his voice muffled by his knees. “Did last night… happen? The river. The… everything before.”
“Yes,” Alex and Reed said in flat unison.
“Ah.” Leroy resumed his gentle head-tapping. “So we’re not just collectively losing our minds. That’s something.”
Emily lowered her arm from her eyes. She looked at Alex, then at Leo in the doorway. A flicker of something—understanding, pity—crossed her face. “So,” she said, drawing the word out. “How’d you guys sleep?”
The question hung in the thick, hungover air. Alex, standing in the middle of the room with his own empty glass, stiffened. He didn’t look at Leo.
“Fine,” Leo said, too quickly.
“Like the dead,” Alex said at the same time.
A beat of silence stretched, thin and brittle. Reed took a precise sip of water. “Well. This is unbearably awkward.” She stood up, the motion fluid but slow. “I’m going to find aspirin. Or bleach. I haven’t decided.” She walked toward the kitchen, her posture rigid.
The dam of quiet broke, releasing a flood of physical misery. Leroy groaned again, standing up unsteadily. “I need grease. I need a potato cooked in motor oil. I’m going to the diner.”
“I’ll come,” Emily said, lurching to her feet. “I cannot be here with this… tension. It’s making my hangover worse.”
They moved in a slow, pained exodus, collecting shoes and phones. No one made eye contact. Reed returned from the kitchen with a bottle of aspirin, shook three into her palm, and dry-swallowed them with a grimace.
“We’ll text,” Emily said, not specifying about what. She gave Leo a small, sympathetic wave that felt like a eulogy.
Then the apartment door clicked shut, and the silence they left behind was absolute and roaring. Leo stood in the bedroom doorway. Alex stood frozen in the center of the living room, surrounded by the evidence of their collective collapse—the empty glasses, the dented sofa cushions, the lingering scent of regret.
Leo’s headache pulsed behind his eyes. His mouth still tasted of the river. The memory of Alex’s hands—pushing him away, then later brushing his skin at the bar—crashed into him with a fresh, sobering clarity. The neat, drunk narrative of the night had dissolved, leaving only the messy, daylight consequences.
Alex finally turned to look at him. His expression was raw, stripped of last night’s defiance or performance. He just looked exhausted and scared.
“So,” Alex said, his voice quiet in the empty apartment. “What happens now?” "First, I'll puke", Leo said , pressing a hand to his stomach.
The room tilted dangerously as he pushed himself off the doorframe. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as he staggered toward the bathroom, his vision swimming with each step. Behind him, he heard Alex exhale sharply, but didn’t wait to see if he’d follow.
The bathroom was a small, windowless box with peeling paint and a mirror that reflected his misery back at him in grotesque detail. He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach heaved, the sour taste of last night’s whiskey and river water burning his throat. His hands shook against the cool porcelain as he retched, his body wracked with dry, painful spasms.
The room spun in slow, nauseating circles, the fluorescent light above the mirror pulsing like a strobe. He could hear Alex’s hesitant footsteps in the hallway, then the soft thud of his weight against the doorframe.
“You okay?” Alex’s voice was rough, hesitant.
Leo groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Define okay.”
A beat of silence. Then Alex exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Fair.”
The floor was cold against his knees, the tiles rough against his bare skin. He flushed the toilet, the sound loud in the small space, and leaned back against the wall.
The coolness of the tiles was a relief against his overheated skin. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, and the room still swayed slightly, like a ship on unsteady waters.
Alex hovered in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. "You want some water?" he asked finally, his voice quiet.
Leo nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The effort of moving his head sent another wave of nausea through him. He closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.
The floor creaked as Alex stepped closer, the sound muffled by the pounding in Leo’s skull.
The bathroom was small, the air thick with the scent of stale whiskey and the faint metallic tang of the river still clinging to their skin. Alex’s shadow stretched across the tiles, long and distorted, before he crouched beside Leo, his knee pressing against the cold floor.
“You look like shit,” Alex murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else—something darker, hungrier.
Leo exhaled sharply, his breath shaky. “You’re one to talk.”
Alex smirked, his fingers brushing against Leo’s jaw, tilting his face up. The touch was light, almost teasing, but Leo felt it like a spark against his skin.
The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat and whiskey, the lingering heat of their bodies still pressed together from the night before. The bathroom was small, the walls closing in around them, the fluorescent light above the mirror casting a harsh, unflattering glow over their faces.
Alex’s fingers traced the line of Leo’s jaw, his thumb brushing over the stubble that had grown in overnight. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were parted just enough to make Leo’s mouth water.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else—something darker, hungrier. “Even when you’re puking your guts out.”
Leo exhaled sharply, his breath shaky.
“You’re one to talk.”
Alex smirked, his fingers brushing against Leo’s jaw, tilting his face up. Now it was Alex's turn to puke. He ran to the toilet and vomited. Leo watched him with a smirk. “You’re one to talk,” Leo said, his voice rough with amusement. “You look like shit too.”
Leo’s voice was rough, but there was a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The fluorescent light above the mirror cast a harsh, unflattering glow over their faces, but neither of them cared.
Alex wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breath still coming in uneven gasps. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who looks like you’ve been dragged through a sewer and then left to dry in the sun.” He leaned against the sink, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turned white. They were both naked so as they went up to go to the bedroom, Leo couldn't help but admire Alex's round and inviting ass that he pounded last night. With one hand he held Alex back and with the other he grabbed his cock and started teasing Alex's hole. "I need you in me, NOW", Alex screames
Alex’s breath hitched as Leo’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing over the stubble that had grown in overnight.
"Fuck, you're so fucking hot," Leo growled, his voice rough with need. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Alex’s ear, his breath hot against the shell. "I want to fuck you so bad, baby.
You feel that?" Leo’s fingers trailed down Alex’s chest, his nails scraping lightly over the soft skin, leaving faint red marks in their wake. His cock was already hard, pressing insistently against the fabric of his jeans, aching for release.
Alex’s breath hitched as Leo’s hand moved lower, his fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers, teasing the sensitive skin just above his cock. "Fuck, yes," Alex moaned, his hips jerking forward, seeking more friction. "I need you inside me."
Leo’s lips curled into a smirk as he pulled back slightly, his fingers still tracing slow, deliberate circles on Alex’s inner thigh.
"You’re so fucking desperate for it, aren’t you?" Leo murmured, his voice rough with need. His fingers traced the line of Alex’s jaw, his thumb brushing over the stubble that had grown in overnight. "You want me to fuck you right here, don’t you?"
Alex’s breath hitched, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Yes," he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Fuck me, Leo. Please."
Leo's smirk deepened, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on the inside of Alex's thigh, teasing the sensitive skin just above his cock. "You want it so bad, don’t you?" he murmured, his voice rough with need. "You’re fucking dripping for me, aren’t you?" "Yes," he moaned, his fingers tightening around the edge of the sink. "I need you inside me. Now."
Leo’s hand moved lower, his fingers brushing against the swollen head of Alex’s cock, making him gasp.
"Fuck, you're so hard for me," Leo growled, his voice rough with lust. He wrapped his fingers around Alex’s length, giving it a slow, teasing stroke.
Leo smirked, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on the inside of Alex's thigh, teasing the sensitive skin just above his cock.
Alex’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the edge of the sink.
Leo’s smirk deepened, his fingers brushing against the swollen head of Alex’s cock, making him gasp.
The bathroom was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the fluorescent light casting harsh shadows across their skin. Leo’s fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on the inside of Alex’s thigh, teasing the sensitive skin just above his cock. "Yes," he moaned, his voice barely above a whisper.
Leo’s smirk deepened, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on the inside of Alex’s thigh, teasing the sensitive skin just above his cock.
"Fuck, yes," he gasped, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
Leo didn't need to be told twice. His fingers tightened around Alex's cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke that made Alex's breath hitch. "You're so fucking hard for me," he growled, his voice rough with lust. "I can feel how much you want this."
Alex moaned, his fingers tightening around the edge of the sink. "Please, Leo," he begged, his voice barely above a whisper.
Leo didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers tightened around Alex’s cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke that made Alex’s breath hitch. "I need you. Please, Leo, just—"
Leo cut him off with a rough kiss, his tongue forcing its way into Alex’s mouth. He tasted like whiskey and regret, but Leo didn’t care.
His hands were already working at the waistband of Alex’s boxers, yanking them down with rough, impatient tugs. Alex’s cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. Leo wrapped his fingers around it, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke that made Alex’s breath hitch.
“Fuck, yes,” Alex gasped, his hips jerking forward, seeking more friction. “Please, Leo, just—”
Leo cut him off with a rough kiss, his tongue forcing its way into Alex’s mouth. He could feel the desperation in it, the way Alex’s lips parted eagerly, his tongue meeting Leo’s with a hungry, sloppy enthusiasm.
Leo’s hand tightened around the base of Alex’s cock, squeezing just enough to make him whimper into the kiss. His other hand slid down, fingers curling under the waistband of Alex’s boxers, pushing them down roughly, exposing the soft, round curves of his ass.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect,” Leo growled against Alex’s mouth, his voice rough with need. He squeezed Alex’s ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together. The heat between them was electric, the air thick with the scent of sweat and whiskey and the faint metallic tang of the river still clinging to their skin.
The climb to Alex’s third-floor walk-up was a silent, gravitational ordeal. Each step amplified the pound of blood in Leo’s temples, a bass drum synced with the leftover river chill in his bones. Alex fumbled with his keys, the metallic scrape overly loud in the stairwell. The door gave way to a living room dominated by a large, low drafting table cluttered with charcoal pencils and fixative.
“You reek of river,” Alex muttered, not unkindly, shedding his hoodie onto the floor.
“So do you.”
A stillness settled, thick and awkward. The adrenaline and alcohol were metabolizing into something quieter, more fragile. Leo stood just inside the doorway, unsure of his role. The ledge. The cliff. The words echoed in the quiet apartment.
“I need a shower,” Alex announced, already moving down the short hall. He didn’t close the bathroom door all the way. The sound of the water kicking on, the hiss of spray hitting tile, filled the space. An invitation, or just a fact.
Leo toed off his wet shoes. He wandered to the drafting table. Taped to the wall above it was a large, detailed sketch of the Morrison Bridge, its trusses rendered with obsessive geometric precision. Beneath the technical perfection, though, in the shadows of the supports, Alex had drawn two small, blurred figures sitting side-by-side, their features indistinct. Leo looked away.
He heard the water stop. Dripping. A towel sliding off a rack. Alex emerged minutes later, hair dark and dripping onto a clean t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He carried a second towel and a folded pair of pants.
“Your turn. Unless you want to stay marinated.”
The shower was scalding. Leo braced his hands against the tile, letting the heat penetrate the deep, residual cold. He washed the smell of the Willamette from his skin, the scent of the bar from his hair. It felt ceremonial. When he emerged, skin flushed, the apartment was dark except for a single lamp by the futon. Alex was sitting on the floor, his back against it, a bottle of whiskey between his legs. Two glasses sat waiting.
“Found a nightcap,” Alex said, his voice rough.
They drank without toasts. The whiskey was cheap and smooth from repetition. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it was shared. They finished the first pour. Alex refilled them.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said, staring into his glass. The words were like stones dropped in a still pond.
“For which part?”
“All of it. The… shouting. The pushing. Using you like a fucking… stress toy.” He took a gulp. “Letting you use me back.”
Leo felt the acknowledgment land, a dull thud in his gut. It was the truth, and it stripped the event of any accidental romance. It had been a transaction of mutual damage. “I knew what I was doing,” Leo said, but it sounded weak.
“Did you?” Alex turned his head, his eyes glinting in the low light. “Because I didn’t. I just needed to feel anything else. Even if it was just… friction.”
The word hung there, physical and raw. Leo remembered the frantic energy, the sheer mindless force of it. The way Alex had cried out, a sound of pure rupture. It hadn’t been pleasure. It had been a controlled demolition.
Alex moved suddenly. He shifted, turning to kneel in front of Leo, who was still sitting on the floor. He took Leo’s glass from his hand and set it aside. His hands, still damp from his own shower, came up to frame Leo’s face. His touch was shockingly deliberate.
“Don’t be kind to me,” Alex whispered, his breath smelling of whiskey and mint. “Not tonight.”
He kissed him. It wasn’t like the hungry, chaotic kisses from the afternoon. This was slow, deep, and devastatingly sober. A tasting. An exploration of a wound. Leo felt himself open, a surrender in his bones. He kissed back, his hands finding Alex’s waist, pulling him closer until Alex was straddling his lap.
They undressed each other with a slow, quiet urgency, fabric whispering away. The lamplight painted their skin in gold and shadow. Alex ran his hands over Leo’s chest, his thumbs brushing his nipples, feeling the softness of his stomach. “You feel real,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He pushed Leo back onto the rug. The rough weave against his bare shoulders was an anchor. Alex leaned down, taking Leo’s cock into his mouth without ceremony. His mouth was hot, wet, expert. He worked him with a focused intensity that was entirely new, his tongue tracing veins, his head bobbing in a rhythm that was both generous and selfish. Leo gasped, tangling his hands in Alex’s damp hair, not to guide, just to hold on.
“Fuck, Alex…”
Alex pulled off with a wet pop, looking up the length of Leo’s body. His eyes were dark pools. “I want you to fuck me,” he said, the words clear and unflinching. “I want to feel it tomorrow. I want to remember.”
He reached for a bottle of lube from a nearby drawer, slicking his fingers. He turned, presenting himself on his knees, back arched. He worked himself open quickly, roughly, his breathing ragged. Leo watched, his own cock aching, the sight of Alex’s capable fingers pressing into himself a devastating erotic charge. This was no passive offering. This was active self-reclamation, or self-punishment, or both.
Alex looked back over his shoulder. “Now. Do it.”
Leo moved behind him, coating himself. He positioned the head of his cock at Alex’s entrance, which fluttered under his touch. He pushed in slowly, the tight, incredible heat swallowing him inch by inch. Alex let out a choked groan, his forehead dropping to his forearms. “Don’t be gentle,” he gritted out. “I’m not breakable.”
Leo obeyed. He set a hard, deep rhythm, each thrust a solid, driving punctuation in the quiet room. The sound of skin slapping skin, of their ragged breaths, filled the space. Alex pushed back against him, meeting every drive, his own cock hard and leaking onto the rug beneath them. He was muttering, a stream of filth and confession. “Yes, just like that… fucking wreck me… you’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m broken…”
Leo’s hands gripped his hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh, holding him steady as he plunged deeper. The pleasure was a tight, coiling wire in his gut, amplified by the raw emotional charge of the act. This wasn’t love. It was something more elemental, an acknowledgment of shared fractures. He fucked into Alex with a relentless, purposeful intensity, chasing the feeling of getting lost in the mechanics of it, in the heat and sweat and sheer physical truth.
Alex’s body began to tense, his internal muscles clamping down around Leo. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice ragged. “Just from this. Don’t stop.”
Leo didn’t. He pistoned his hips, the angle perfect, and felt Alex shudder violently beneath him. Alex came with a muffled shout, his release streaking the rug, his body convulsing around Leo’s cock in rhythmic pulses. The sensation tipped Leo over the edge. With a final, deep drive, he buried himself and came, a white-hot flood, his vision spotting as he emptied himself into Alex’s clenching heat.
He collapsed forward, careful not to crush him, his body draped over Alex’s back. They stayed like that, joined, breathing in shattered sync. The smell of sex and sweat and cheap whiskey was dense in the air. Slowly, Leo softened and slipped out. Alex didn’t move.
They eventually found the strength to crawl onto the futon, a tangle of limp limbs. No words were spoken. Sleep came like a lead blanket, deep and dreamless.
The morning was a knife of sunlight and the taste of old copper. Leo woke to a skull full of shattered glass and a dryness that crackled in his throat. The empty whiskey bottle sat accusingly on the floor. Alex was already awake, sitting on the edge of the futon, staring at the sketch of the bridge. The silence was a physical entity, swollen with everything they’d done and said.
“Water,” Leo croaked.
Alex wordlessly stood, fetched a glass from the kitchen, and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed. The contact was electric with memory.
“I have to open the cafe,” Alex said, his voice flat. “Ben’s out sick.”
“Okay.”
There was no discussion of the night. It sat between them like a third person as they moved through the small routines of dressing, of brushing teeth with a spare toothbrush, of avoiding each other’s eyes in the reflection. They parted on the sidewalk with a nod that felt like a door sliding shut. Leo walked home through a city that seemed too bright, too sharp, every sensation amplified by his hangover and the raw, exposed nerve ending Alex had become.
The day passed in a blurred ache. He canceled his plans. He drank water, took aspirin, and stared at his own ceiling. His body felt pleasantly, specifically sore in a way that was a constant reminder. The voicemail from Emily came around four.
“The Otter. Tonight. No excuses. We’re finishing what we started.”
It wasn’t a question.
By nine pm, the booth at The Tipsy Otter felt like a life raft in a sea of throbbing bass. Emily, Reed, Leo, and Alex occupied it like survivors of the same crash, a tacit pact binding them. The goal was unspoken but unanimous: annihilation.
They started with shots. Whiskey, then tequila, then a vile cinnamon schnapps Reed produced like a challenge. They chased them with pints of dark, malty beer. The conversation was a loud, leaping thing, skipping from morbid jokes about the river’s bacteria count to heated debates about sandwich architecture. Laughter came too easily, bursts of sound that felt like pressure valves releasing.
Leo felt the drunk descend not as a wave, but as a sudden atmospheric shift. One moment the world had edges, the next it was all a warm, vibrating haze. His limbs felt loose, disconnected. The music wasn’t just heard; it pulsed up through the floorboards into the marrow of his bones. The lights—the neon sign over the bar, the flickering tea lights on the tables—streaked and bled into his peripheral vision like wet watercolor.
Alex was matching him drink for drink, his movements becoming fluid, his guarded expression softening into something slack and open. He laughed at everything, a loud, unhinged sound that made Leo’s chest ache. They were communicating through touch now—a shove of a shoulder, a hand on a knee under the table, fingers brushing as they reached for the same bowl of peanuts. Each contact was a live wire.
Emily’s words began to slur into a delightful mush. “I think the room is… tilting. But in a friendly way.” She rested her head on Reed’s shoulder. Reed, typically austere, let her, an arm slung loosely around her, her own gaze heavy-lidded and fixed on the middle distance as she nursed a straight bourbon.
“More,” Alex declared, his voice thick. He flagged down a server. “Four of your… strongest thing. Something that tastes like regret and bad decisions.”
The server brought four glasses of murky brown liquid topped with a dark rum float. They smelled of gasoline and burnt sugar. They clinked glasses, a dissonant chime.
“To the river!” Leroy shouted from a neighboring table, raising his own beer.
“To not drowning!” Emily slurred back.
They drank. The liquid was an assault, a fire that burned all the way down and settled into a deep, nuclear glow. Leo’s vision tunneled. Sound became muffled, as if he were underwater. He looked at Alex, who was staring back, his pupils swallowing the hazel of his irises. Alex’s mouth was slightly open, his lips slick from the drink. In that moment, he looked utterly, devastatingly beautiful and completely ruined.
The noise of the bar faded to a dull roar. Leo was aware of his own heartbeat in his ears, a slow, thick thud. He leaned close, the world tilting on its axis. His lips brushed the shell of Alex’s ear. He could smell the sweat on his skin, the alcohol on his breath.
“I want to go,” Leo murmured, the words sticky in his mouth.
Alex just nodded, a slow, dreamlike dip of his chin. He fumbled a crumpled bill from his pocket and dropped it on the table. Standing was a negotiation with gravity. They didn’t say goodbye, just weaved through the crowd, a two-man exodus. The cool night air hit them like a physical slap, but did nothing to cut through the profound, woolly intoxication. They walked, or stumbled, bodies leaning into each other for balance, a four-legged creature navigating an unsteady world.
They didn’t make it to either of their apartments. The momentum of the drunk, the raw, unprocessed energy of the last thirty-six hours, demanded a more immediate conclusion. In the shadowy alley beside the Otter, behind a dumpster that smelled of stale beer and rotting lemons, Alex pushed Leo against the cold, gritty brick.
His mouth was hungry, devouring, all teeth and tongue and desperate noise. Leo kissed him back with equal ferocity, his hands yanking at Alex’s belt. There was no tenderness here, only the frantic need to translate the inner chaos into physical action. Alex got Leo’s jeans open, his hand rough and demanding as he gripped his cock. He spat into his own palm, the gesture crude and efficient, and began stroking him with a relentless, hurried rhythm.
“Fuck me here,” Alex panted against his neck. “Against the wall. Do it.”
He turned, bracing his forearms on the brick, pushing his sweatpants down just enough. Leo, his head swimming, fumbled with the lube from his own pocket, slicking himself with clumsy, generous globs. He pressed into the tight, resisting heat. Alex cried out, a sharp, bitten-off sound swallowed by the alley’s echoes. The angle was awkward, brutal. Each thrust jolted them both. The brick scraped Leo’s knuckles. The smell of garbage and sex filled his nostrils.
It was fast, graceless, and profoundly dirty. Leo’s orgasm ripped through him, stolen by the sheer illicit intensity of the act. He spilled into Alex with a guttural groan, his forehead pressed between Alex’s shoulder blades. He felt Alex’s own body shudder, his cock pulsing in his hand as he finished himself off against the alley wall.
They stayed there, panting, still joined, listening to the distant thump of music from the bar. The drunk was still absolute, a warm, shame-killing blanket. Alex’s shoulders shook, but whether from laughter or something else, Leo couldn’t tell in the dark.