Chapter 34: Chapter 34
The morning was a gray, pounding thing. Leo woke with a start, his mouth carpeted in a foul, chemical taste—the neighbor’s gin staging a revolt. Alex was a warm, dead weight beside him, breathing in slow, congested hitches. From the living room, a symphony of groans announced the others were also returning to the land of the living, each sound a nail driven directly into Leo’s temple.
“Water,” Leroy croaked from the couch. “I’d trade a kidney for a glass of water that doesn’t taste like the river.”
“The river was cleaner,” Reed mumbled, her voice muffled by what sounded like a cushion.
They moved through the afternoon in a haze of hydration and regret, nursing lukewarm coffee and sharing a silent, collective vow of never again. But by six p.m., the sharp edges of the hangover had dulled into a persistent throb, and the empty apartment began to feel like a cage. The silence between them was thick, loaded with everything they hadn’t said the night before.
“I can’t just sit here,” Alex said suddenly, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “I’m going to crawl out of my skin.”
Emily nodded, clutching her empty mug. “We need a… reset. A proper one. Not a river-shaped one.”
“The Otter?” Leo suggested, the word leaving his mouth before he could reconsider it. It was the scene of the original crime, but also their familiar ground. A place where the noise could swallow the silence.
Reed met his gaze, then Alex’s. “Yeah,” she said, decisive. “Let’s go back to the start. But this time, we do it right. We burn the whole fucking night down.”
The Tipsy Otter welcomed them with its usual dim glow. It smelled of pine cleaner from a freshly mopped floor and the ghost of last night’s spilled beer. They claimed the same corner booth, a silent agreement passing between them. This wasn't a social visit. This was a mission.
“Four shots of well tequila,” Alex told the server, a new guy who didn’t know their history. “And keep the bottle of Jameson nearby.”
The first shot was a harsh, welcome eraser. The second smoothed the remaining rough patches. By the third, poured over lips already numb, the world began to soft-focus at the edges. Leo felt the alcohol hit his bloodstream like a warm, rising tide, lifting the weight of his limbs and blurring the sharp image of Alex’s guarded eyes from the morning.
“Remember that fucking rug?” Leroy slurred, laughing into his whiskey glass. His words were starting to slide into each other. “It looked so offended.”
“It was Persian,” Reed said, her head lolling against the high back of the booth. “It had seen things, but not that.”
They laughed, too loud, the sound bouncing off the walls. The jukebox played something brass and swinging, but the rhythm seemed to come from inside Leo’s own head, a slowed-down heartbeat. He watched Alex drain another shot, the line of his throat working. Alex caught him staring and didn’t look away. The space between them on the vinyl seat felt charged, like a live wire had fallen into the gap.
Another round arrived. And another. The bottle of Jameson glugged its amber contents into their glasses with a frequency that became ritual. Leo’s thoughts dissolved into pleasant, disconnected fragments. The ice in his glass was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. The label on the bottle was a masterpiece of design. He tried to tell Alex this, but his tongue was a thick, uncooperative thing.
“Your face is… it’s really a good face,” Leo managed, the words spilling out like marbles.
Alex’s laughter was a low, warm rumble. He leaned in, his breath a cloud of whiskey and citrus. “Yours too. A very… round. Good face.”
They were leaning into each other, a gravitational pull fueled by a quarter-bottle of whiskey. The room tilted on a gentle axis. Emily was telling a story with elaborate hand gestures that nearly upended a glass. Leroy was nodding seriously, his eyes at half-mast. Reed had gone quiet, watching them all with a soft, blurry smile.
Leo needed the bathroom. Standing up was a revelation; the floor seemed to be made of memory foam, rising to meet his feet in slow, elastic waves. He listed sideways, his shoulder connecting hard with the wall. The patterned wallpaper felt intensely textured under his fingertips.
“Steady there, sailor,” Alex’s voice was suddenly close, a hand on his elbow. His grip was solid, anchoring.
“The room is… nautical,” Leo agreed solemnly.
They navigated the short hallway together, a three-legged race of drunkards. Inside the single-stall bathroom, the light was brutally bright. Leo braced his hands on the cool porcelain of the sink, staring at his own bleary reflection. His eyes were glassy, his pupils wide. Behind him, Alex closed the door and locked it with a definitive click.
The silence was different in here, compressed. The thump of the music was muffled. Alex was looking at him, his own expression raw and unfiltered by the bar’s dimness. The alcohol had burned away all his usual defenses, leaving something painfully open.
“Last night,” Alex started, then stopped. He swayed, catching himself on the door. “The river. And after. I don’t… I can’t get a grip on what it means.”
His words were thick, clumsy with drink and something else. Fear, maybe. Leo understood. The warm buzz in his veins turned into a sharp, clarifying ache. He pushed off from the sink, the room doing a slow roll. He reached out, his hand cupping the side of Alex’s face. The stubble was rough against his palm.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything yet,” Leo said, each word an effort of precision. “It just is.”
He kissed him. It was nothing like the desperate hunger of the night before. This was slow, deep, a tasting of whiskey and confusion and potential. Alex made a broken sound against his mouth, his hands fisting in the fabric of Leo’s shirt. They clung to each other, not for passion, but for balance, for a point of reference in a spinning world.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. Leo’s stomach chose that moment to pitch, a greasy, acidic lurch. The tequila and whiskey coalesced into a single, urgent threat.
“Oh, no,” he mumbled, pulling away. He barely got the lid up in time.
The violence of it was humbling. Alex’s hand was on his back, a steady pressure, his forehead resting between Leo’s shoulder blades. “It’s okay,” Alex murmured, his own voice ragged. “It’s just the gin from last night. And the tequila. And the whiskey. It’s all just… coming home.”
After, Leo splashed water on his face, the cold a shock. He looked wrecked. Alex looked worse, his skin pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow. They leaned against each other, trembling.
“We should go back out,” Leo said, not moving.
“We should,” Alex agreed, his arm slung around Leo’s waist, holding him up.
They emerged from the bathroom, their return to the booth a slow, shameless shuffle. The others took them in with bleary, knowing eyes. No one commented. Emily just pushed a full glass of water toward each of them. They drank, the water tasting miraculously pure.
The final round was a silent, mutual pact. The Jameson bottle was nearly empty. They poured the last of it, the golden liquid catching the light. Their glasses met in the center of the table with a soft, final clink.
Leo drank his down. The world didn’t so much tilt as gently detach. Sounds came from the end of a long tunnel. Colors smeared. He felt Alex’s hand find his under the table, their fingers intertwining, a tight, desperate clasp. He looked over. Alex’s eyes were closed, a single tear tracking through the stubble on his cheek. It wasn’t sadness. It was a pure, uncomplicated overwhelm of feeling, stripped bare by the alcohol.
Leo knew, with the profound, useless clarity of the profoundly drunk, that tomorrow would be a physical and emotional disaster of unprecedented scale. The hangover would be a metaphysical punishment. The conversations would be brutal. But in this moment, with the music a dull roar and his friends dissolving into fuzzy silhouettes and Alex’s hand a hot, solid anchor in his own, he felt everything had been scorched clean. They had, as ordered, burned the night down. Now they just had to see what could grow in the ashes.
They finished the rest of the gin and passed out on Alex's bed, with Emily, Reed, and Leroy unconscious in the living room.
Sunlight was a brutal hammer on Leo’s skull. He woke to its blade slicing through a gap in the curtains, directly into his right eye. The inside of his mouth tasted of gin, stale river water, and regret. A low, sick throbbing pulsed behind his temples, synced with his heartbeat. He was tangled in a single, damp sheet, Alex a warm, heavy line of heat against his back, snoring softly into the pillow.
Movement from the living room produced a soft groan, followed by a thud and a hissed, “Fuck.”
Leo squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Every part of him felt raw, sandpapered from the inside. The previous night was a shattered mosaic: the cold shock of the river, the desperate heat of Alex’s mouth, the bitter tang of gin, the shuddering release. He held onto the last one, the solid weight of Alex against him, as an anchor against the nausea rolling in his gut.
The smell of coffee hit him next. It was wrong, a fragrant betrayal. His stomach clenched.
“I’m making coffee,” Reed’s voice called from the kitchen, too loud. “If anyone pukes on my shoes, I’m leaving you for dead.”
Leo forced one eye open. Alex was still asleep, his face pressed into the pillow, looking younger and strangely innocent. Leo carefully extracted himself, every muscle protesting. The floor was cold. He found his jeans and pulled them on, wincing at the stiff, dried fabric.
The scene in the living room was a disaster painting. Leroy was face-down on the rug, one arm curled around the base of the overturned plant. Emily was draped sideways in the armchair, a blanket around her waist, her hair a wild cloud. Reed stood at the stove, her back rigid, methodically spooning coffee grounds into a filter. She looked like she was defusing a bomb.
“How are you vertical?” Leo rasped, his voice gritty.
“Practice and self-loathing,” Reed said without turning around. “The water’s almost boiling. Don’t talk to me until I’ve had a cup.”
Leroy moaned into the rug. “My tongue is a dead animal. A furry, dead animal.”
Alex emerged from the bedroom, squinting, wearing only his jeans. His hair stood up in chaotic spikes. He looked at Leo, a flicker of something unreadable—awkwardness, memory, uncertainty—passing over his face before he veered toward the kitchen sink. He stuck his head under the tap and drank directly from it for a long time.
They drank Reed’s strong, bitter coffee in silence, perched on various surfaces like survivors of a shipwreck. The caffeine was a sharp goad to their already frayed nerves. It didn’t fix anything. It just made them more aware of the wreckage.
“So,” Emily said finally, her voice a hollow croak. She stared into her mug. “What’s the plan?”
No one answered. The plan had been the river. The plan had been the gin. Those plans were executed, and they were still here, hungover and staring at the same psychic crater.
Leo felt it first—the insidious thought that slithered through the cracks of his headache. An echo of the previous night’s desperate logic. If the river washed the outside, and the gin blurred the inside… maybe they just hadn’t blurred enough.
Alex voiced it. He was leaning against the counter, looking at his empty mug. “We should go out.”
Leroy lifted his head from his hands. “Out where? I think my soul needs a dark room for a year.”
“The Otter,” Alex said, his gaze finding Leo’s. It was a challenge. A continuation. “Tonight. Properly.”
The silence stretched. It was a terrible idea. It was the only idea any of them had.
Reed set her mug down with a decisive click. “I’m in. If I’m going to feel like death, I might as well earn it.”
The Tipsy Otter felt different walking in sober. The dim lights weren’t moody; they were hiding something. The hum of conversation wasn’t lively; it was a grating buzz against their tender nerves. The scent of whiskey and beer was no longer inviting; it was a threat.
They claimed the same high-top table near the back, a grim mirror of their group days before. This time, there was no Ben with his book, no Marcus with his rugby stories. Just the four of them, and the ghost of what happened.
“Starters,” Leroy said, flagging down a server. “Tequila. Don’t bring the bottle, bring the rifle. Shoot it directly into my brain.”
The first round was medicinal. They drank to erase the hangover, throwing back shots of cheap whiskey with the grim determination of soldiers taking bitter medicine. It burned a line through the residual river-chill and the gritty fatigue. A false warmth spread through Leo’s chest.
The second round was smoother. Beers chasers. The edges of the room softened. Emily’s laugh came easier, louder than necessary. Leroy started telling a long, convoluted story about a camping trip, his hands drawing shapes in the air.
By the third round, a shift occurred. They weren’t drinking to catch up or to feel better. They were drinking to disappear.
Leo lost count. Shots blurred into doubles. Someone, maybe Alex, switched them from beer to a pitcher of something sweet and crimson that tasted of synthetic cherries. It went down too easy. The world developed a pleasant, forgiving tilt.
“I can’t feel my face,” Emily announced, grinning. She poked her own cheek. “See? Nothing.”
“I can feel my face,” Reed said, her words precise but slowed, like a record player on the wrong speed. “I feel it’s too small for my head. My head is a balloon.”
Leroy was slumped in his chair, a serene smile on his face, watching the colors of the neon beer signs melt together. “Pretty,” he slurred.
Alex was a steady, quiet presence beside Leo, but his quiet had a new charge. His leg pressed against Leo’s under the table, a constant, warm line of contact. Every time Leo looked at him, Alex was already looking back, his eyes dark and unwavering. He’d finish his drink, set the glass down, and his hand would find Leo’s knee, squeeze, and linger.
It wasn’t like the frantic need from the night before. This was slower, denser. A drunk, possessive gravity.
Leo leaned into it. The alcohol was a thick syrup in his veins, muting the sharp anxiety, amplifying the pull toward Alex’s warmth. He bought them another round—two tall glasses of amber liquid he couldn’t name. He clinked his glass against Alex’s.
“To inside stuff,” Leo said, the words coming out glued together.
Alex held his gaze, drank half the glass in one go. “To nothing else.”
The room began to swim in earnest. Sounds detached from their sources—laughter from a distant cluster, the clink of glass, the thud of a bassline from the jukebox—all swirled into a single, muddy noise. Leo tried to stand to go to the bathroom and the floor lurched sideways. He caught himself on the table, sending empty glasses rattling.
“Whoa, sailor,” Emily giggled, pointing at him.
The bathroom was a narrow, spinning tunnel of white tile. Leo braced his hands on the sink, staring at his reflection. His face was pale, his eyes too bright. He looked blurred, like someone had smudged the edges of him. He splashed water that tasted of metal on his face, but it didn’t help.
When he stumbled back, the dynamic at the table had fractured. Reed was meticulously stacking coasters into a trembling tower, her concentration absolute. Emily was crying quietly, tears cutting tracks through her makeup, but she was smiling while she did it. Leroy appeared to be asleep with his eyes open.
Alex hadn’t moved. He just watched Leo approach, his expression unreadable. He pushed the fresh glass toward him. “You’re behind.”
Leo took it. The drink tasted of nothing but fire now. It didn’t warm him. It scorched a hollow path down to a growing, cold emptiness. He was drunker than he’d ever been. The world was a tilted funhouse, his thoughts slow, sticky bubbles that popped before they reached the surface.
He heard himself say something to Alex, his mouth moving clumsily. He saw Alex reply, but the words were just sounds, shapes made by his perfect, chapped lips.
Then Alex’s hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him in. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, a claim staked in the middle of the noisy, spinning bar. It tasted of the cherry-crimson drink and something desperate. Leo kissed back, his hands fumbling for purchase on Alex’s shirt. It was too much and not enough, a public spectacle that felt strangely, devastatingly private.
Someone—Emily?—whooped. Leo didn’t care.
When they broke apart, gasping, the world recalibrated into a sharper, more dangerous focus. The drunk euphoria was gone, burned away by the kiss. What was left was a raw, staggering intoxication. A recklessness that felt like falling.
Leo’s stomach curdled. The sweetness of the drinks, the whiskey, the synthetic cherry, the beer—it all rose in a hot, acidic tide. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes watering.
“Bathroom,” he managed to gasp, shoving away from the table.
He didn’t make it. He stumbled three steps toward the hall before his body seized. He lurched sideways, crashing into the wall next to the vintage pinball machine. The first heave was a dry, wrenching spasm that tore through his gut. The second brought up everything—the crimson cocktail, the whiskey, the beer, the ghost of the river, the unspoken words, the fear, the want.
It splattered against the dark wood baseboard and the side of the machine with a violent, shameful sound.
The music from the jukebox seemed to drop in volume for a second. A few people at nearby tables glanced over, their expressions flickering between disgust and pity before quickly looking away.
Leo stayed hunched over, hands on his knees, strings of saliva connecting his lips to the mess on the floor. He was trembling, hollowed out, utterly exposed. The proud, wrenching noise of his own sickness echoed in his ears, the final, humiliating consequence of the most drunk he had ever been.
A hand landed firmly between his shoulder blades. Not gentle. Solid. Keeping him from falling over.
It was Alex. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, his touch an anchor in the spinning, shameful chaos, as Leo dry-heaved onto the sticky floor of The Tipsy Otter.
Sunlight hit Leo’s closed eyelids like a physical accusation. It wasn’t gentle morning light. It was a cleaver of pure white pain splitting his skull. He groaned, the sound scraping against the dry walls of his throat. The taste in his mouth was a toxic bog of juniper and regret. Something heavy and warm was pinning his arm.
Memory returned in shards. The river. The raw cold. The warmth of the gin. Alex’s mouth, his hands, the desperate, searching press of his body in the dark.
He cracked an eye open. Alex was sprawled face-down beside him, one arm flung across Leo’s chest, his breathing deep and ragged. The sheets were a tangled wreck around their waists. Leo carefully extracted his numb arm, the movement sending a nauseating ripple through his gut. He sat up, the room tilting dangerously. His mouth felt stuffed with dry wool.
The silence was absolute, oppressive. Then, from the living room, a low, sustained groan. It was followed by the sound of someone stumbling, a muffled curse, and the unmistakable retch of vomiting into a wastebasket.
Reed. It had to be Reed.
Leo swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cool floor. The world swayed. He waited, head in his hands, until the vertigo passed. He stood, his body protesting with various aches—muscles sore from the river’s current, a deeper, more pleasant soreness from the night’s other exertions. He found his boxers and pulled them on.
The living room was a monument to decay. Leroy was a shapeless mound under a blanket on the floor. Emily was curled in the armchair, her face pale and slick with a sheen of cold sweat. Reed was on her knees by the radiator, head hanging over a small plastic bin, her shoulders trembling.
“Water,” she croaked, not looking up.
Leo navigated like a sailor in a storm, holding onto doorframes for support. He filled four glasses from the tap, the water achingly cold. He delivered them silently: one on the floor next to Reed, one on the side table for Emily, one set gently near Leroy’s head. He kept the last for himself, draining it in one long, desperate gulp before refilling it.
Alex emerged from the bedroom, squinting. He’d pulled on a pair of sweats but nothing else. His hair was a wild mess, his face creased from the pillows. He looked as awful as Leo felt, but when his eyes found Leo, a slow, pained smile touched his lips. It was a private thing, fragile and new.
“You look like death,” Alex rasped.
“You smell like it,” Leo countered, but he handed him the fresh glass of water.
They convened in the ruined living room, a council of the damned. No one spoke much. Words required energy they didn’t have. They sipped water, clutched their heads, and avoided sudden movements. The previous night hung in the air, a complex cloud of river water, sex, and viscous, herbal gin.
It was Leroy, staring blankly at a stain on the ceiling, who broke the silence. “We need a reset.”
Emily moaned. “A reset involves sleep. And death. I vote for death.”
“A proper reset,” Leroy insisted, his voice gravelly. “Hair of the dog. But, like, the whole damn dog.”
Reed lifted her head from the bin. Her eyes were bloodshot. “No.”
“Yes,” Alex said. The word was quiet but firm. He was looking at Leo again. That look held the ghost of the previous night, a challenge and an invitation. “We can’t just sit here… marinating. In this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at themselves.
Leo understood. The hangover was a physical truth, but the alternative—sitting in this quiet apartment with the memory of Alex’s skin under his hands, with everything that had been said and not said—was a psychological trap. The loud, chaotic neutrality of The Tipsy Otter felt like the only escape route.
“The Otter,” Leo said. “Tonight.”
Reed groaned again, deeper this time. “You’re all sociopaths.”
Emily nodded slowly, her head clearly pounding with the motion. “Yeah. Okay. But we’re eating first. A giant, greasy burger. Something to sop up the… the everything.”
The agreement was made in weak nods and pained exhales. The day passed in a slow, hazy crawl of takeout food, more water, and desperate attempts at sleep on various uncomfortable surfaces. By late afternoon, the sharp edge of the hangover had dulled to a thick, manageable fog. The memory of the night, however, had not faded. It hung between Leo and Alex, a silent, humming thing. A shared glance across the room held an entire unspoken conversation.
The Tipsy Otter welcomed them with its familiar dim glow and din of conversation. It felt like returning to the scene of a crime, but a crime they were all complicit in. They claimed their usual corner booth, a stained wooden relic that felt like a life raft.
“Rounds,” Leroy declared, slapping the table. “No sipping. No pacing. We are here for a procedure.”
The procedure began with whiskey sours, bitter and bracing. They clinked glasses, a hollow, ceremonial sound, and drank. The first burn was medicinal, cutting through the last cobwebs of the gin. The second went down easier. The third tasted like possibility.
Leo watched Alex from across the table. With each drink, the careful, post-sex awkwardness began to melt. Alex’s laughs came quicker, his gestures looser. He caught Leo looking and didn’t look away. He just held the gaze, took another sip, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
They moved from whiskey to pints of a local IPA, dark and hoppy. The booth became their universe. The noise of the bar faded to a pleasant roar. Jokes got louder. Stories got more elaborate. Reed, who had sworn she’d nurse one beer, was now doing shots of tequila with Leroy, licking salt from her hand with a grim determination.
“The river,” Emily shouted, sloshing her beer. “We actually did that. We’re maniacs.”
“We are legends!” Leroy corrected, slinging an arm around her shoulders.
The world began to soften, to blur at the edges. Leo’s body felt pleasantly disconnected, floating on a warm, amber current. He was acutely aware of Alex’s knee pressing against his under the table. A point of solid, warm contact in the swirling room.
Someone, maybe Reed, ordered a round of brightly colored cocktails that tasted like candy and regret. They arrived with umbrellas and flaming sugar cubes. The sugar cubes were a terrible idea. Leroy tried to juggle his and set a napkin on fire. They drowned it with a splash of beer, howling with laughter that felt raw and necessary.
Leo’s vision started to tunnel. The conversations around him fractured into snippets he couldn’t follow. He was anchored only by the pressure of Alex’s leg against his own. He leaned closer, the wood of the table cool against his forehead.
“You’re wasted,” Alex’s voice said, close to his ear. It was thick, amused.
“You’re beautiful,” Leo heard himself say. The words fell out, clumsy and true.
Alex’s laughter was a warm huff against his cheek. “You’re seeing double.”
“Only one of you,” Leo murmured, turning his head. Their faces were inches apart. The bar noise receded completely. All he could see was the curve of Alex’s mouth, the dark fringe of his lashes. The smell of him—whiskey, sweat, and that essential Alex-ness—cut through the sugary cocktail haze.
“C’mon,” Alex said, his voice low. He stood, swaying slightly. He grabbed Leo’s hand, his grip firm. “Need air. You need air.”
Leo stumbled up, his legs unreliable. The floor seemed to tilt. He held onto Alex’s hand like it was a lifeline. Emily and Reed were locked in a deep, slurring debate about something. Leroy was attempting to explain rugby to a bewildered looking stranger at the bar. Their little life raft was dissolving.
The cool night air hit them like a slap. It was bracing, shocking. Leo sucked it in, his head swimming. He leaned heavily against the brick wall of the bar, the rough surface solid against his back. Alex stood in front of him, propping him up with hands on his shoulders.
“You good?” Alex asked. His eyes were glassy, his focus drifting.
“No,” Leo said, and then he was laughing, a helpless, wheezing sound. “I’m so far from good.”
Alex laughed too, his forehead coming to rest against Leo’s collarbone. “We’re a disaster.”
“A beautiful disaster,” Leo mumbled into his hair.
Then Alex was kissing him. It was nothing like the hungry, desperate kisses from the night before. This was sloppy, off-center, all whiskey-wet heat and clumsy tongues. Leo kissed back, his hands fisting in the back of Alex’s shirt to keep them both upright. It tasted of acid and sugar and the overwhelming need to be closer, to melt into one single, blurry entity.
They broke apart, gasping for air that didn’t smell like each other. The world spun violently. Leo’s stomach lurched.
“Oh, no,” he managed.
He stumbled away from the wall, from Alex, into the shadowed alley beside the bar. He made it two steps before his knees buckled. He braced his hands on his thighs as the contents of the evening—the whiskey sours, the IPAs, the flaming sugar cocktails—came roaring back up. He vomited violently onto the asphalt, the sound harsh and ugly in the quiet alley.
A warm hand settled between his shoulder blades. Alex didn’t say anything. He just stood there, a silent, swaying presence, his hand rubbing slow circles as Leo emptied himself. The humiliation was sharp, cutting through the drunken fog for a second.
When it was over, Leo spat, tears stinging his eyes from the strain. Alex handed him a crumpled bar napkin from his pocket.
“Told you,” Alex slurred, his own balance precarious. “Beautiful disaster.”
Leo wiped his mouth, his whole body trembling with the aftershock. He was hollowed out, shivering, more sober than he’d been in hours but now orbiting a new, miserable planet. He looked at Alex, whose face was pale and concerned in the yellow glow of the distant streetlight.
“I think,” Leo said, his voice raw, “we have officially hit the limit.”
Alex nodded, his expression solemn. “I think we passed it about three drinks ago.”
Back inside, they found their friends in a similar state of unravel. Reed was asleep with her head on the table. Emily was meticulously stacking empty glasses into a wobbling tower. Leroy was gone, presumably having accosted the rugby stranger elsewhere.
The walk back to Alex’s apartment was a slow, treacherous journey. They supported each other, a four-legged, lurching beast. Leo’s mouth tasted of bile and shame. Every step sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. They were silent, all of them, the earlier raucous energy utterly spent, replaced by a deep, mutual misery.
In the apartment, they collapsed without ceremony. Reed claimed the couch, face buried in a cushion. Emily slid down a wall in the hallway, asleep before her head hit the floor. Leo and Alex staggered into the bedroom.
This time, there was no passion, no exploring hands or whispered confessions. They stripped down to their boxers with the clumsy, focused movements of the profoundly drunk. Leo’s stomach churned uneasily. He climbed into bed, the cool sheets a relief on his overheated skin. Alex collapsed beside him, his back to Leo.
The room spun in the dark. Leo lay perfectly still, trying to will his stomach to settle. The sweet, cloying smell of their cocktails clung to his sinuses. He felt disgusting, inside and out.
Then, in the dark, Alex’s hand found his. His fingers were warm and solid. They didn’t intertwine, just rested, palm to palm, a quiet point of contact in the swirling, sick darkness. It wasn’t romantic. It was an anchor.
“Don’t die,” Alex mumbled, his words already slurred with impending sleep.
“Trying not to,” Leo whispered back.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the simple weight of Alex’s hand in his. The consequences of the night were a tsunami waiting at the shore. The hangover tomorrow would be biblical. The things they’d said, the things they’d done, would need to be examined in the cruel light of day.
But for now, in the dark, anchored by that single point of contact, Leo held on and let the drunken world dissolve into nothing.