Chapter Text
“Hey Buddy, maybe you should sit down for a bit.” Arnold’s voice sounds distorted in Kevin’s ears, and he doesn’t know whether to blame the roar of the party around them or the blood rushing in his ears that is drowning out almost all noise.
Kevin scrunches his face up in disbelief, scoffing, “Are—Are you kidding me? It’s a party.”
“True,” Arnold patronizes, unable to not laugh a little as Kevin lurches forward and has to latch on to his friend to keep balance, “But you look like you rode the Teacups one too many times, and I’m getting worried about my shoes.”
“What are you talking about? I feel great.” Though now that Arnold mentions it, his stomach suddenly sours and rolls, sucking the buoyancy out of his step and the beam off his face. Kevin looks down at his cup and squints at it skeptically, “What’s in this again?”
“Vodka,” Arnold says with emphasis, and oh yeah, that’s right, “And that’s not your first one.”
“Vodka,” The word seems funny to him, so he says it again, “Vodka.” His stomach rolls again coupled with his head spinning, “Oh Arnold, I don’t think I like Vodka.”
One particularly rowdy partier knocks into Kevin’s back and causes him to slush the liquor all over his shirt, the poignant smell overwhelming his nostrils and causing a hot, sweltering simmer to rise in his gut. Kevin looks down at the ruined button-up and abruptly turns around, throwing the cup to the ground, “My mom got me this shirt, Asshole.”
Arnold’s large hands wrap around his shoulders and thrust him backwards before the beefy drunkard even notices that he’s spoken to him, causing another unpleasant flip in his soured belly. Oh fuck.
“We're leaving,” Arnold announces, tugging Kevin through the house on route to the door, “I have an English presentation tomorrow morning anyway. Need to not be so hungover, after all.”
“This party is so much fun,” Kevin declares, “Why haven’t I come with you before?”
“You hate loud noises—and loud people.” Arnold reminds him, sounding a little amused. He’s not stone cold sober himself, so his grip on Kevin’s shirt collar as he herds him around is throttling. Luckily, Kevin has enough mental cognizance to unbutton a few buttons on his shirt, which negates only some of the pressure.
The cold air hits him hard as Arnold slams the door open and leads him onto the porch. He finally lets go of Kevin, but he soon stops just as he starts to make his descent down the stairs, “Crap. I forgot Nicaragua.”
“Last time I saw her, she was out-chugging some frat guy in the kitchen.” He recalls the dazed, confused panic in the guy’s eyes at being bested by some one-hundred pound girl, and he laughs.
“Stay here.” Arnold says with a raised finger, and oh, he has his serious voice right now. How adorable (though he can’t really tell if he actually thinks it’s adorable or if it’s just because that’s the only word he can remember right now). Kevin tries to reply, but just as the words form in his mouth, Arnold is already gone and has been for the past five minutes.
The lurches in his stomach grow in frequency, so he distracts himself by leaning against the small iron railing of the porch. A gust of wind sends the stench radiating off his shirt straight to his nose again, and Kevin is painfully reminded of how much he hates Vodka. He’s only been drunk a handful of times, but he knows enough to realize that it isn’t supposed to feel like this—Sweating all over, aching all over, his mouth unable to form a coherent sentence. Vaguely, he tries to recall the symptoms of alcohol poisoning, but he can hardly focus on anything except his own ragged breathing.
When it hits him, he barely has time to brace himself before he’s leaning over and vomiting into the nearby shrubs. The bile streams out of his mouth, the silent night being disturbed by the hacking sounds coming from his throat.
After what seems like hours, he hears the front door open and shut, signaling Arnold’s return. Through sheer will power, he manages to close his mouth and swallow the remaining vomit back down, making it slither slowly down his throat like a drunk serpent. Smacking a hand over his mouth just in case, he turns to receive the disappointing gaze of his two friends only to be faced with the wide, confused eyes of a stranger.
Kevin opens his mouth to apologize but ends up vomiting all over the guy’s shoes instead.
“Oh God,” He hiccups after his stomach is finally empty, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” The guy says gingerly, looking down at his shoes with a strained expression, “I wanted an excuse to leave this party anyway.” He looks back up at him and his face changes, as if he’s actually getting a full look of the hot mess in front of him for the first time. Kevin becomes painfully aware of the vodka staining his shirt and the drool on his chin, and he very nearly vomits again out of sheer humiliation.
“I don’t do this often,” Kevin tells him hurriedly, “Your shoes are the first to ever be vomited on by me.” He wants to explain further, but the spinning sensation in his head is soon giving way to a splitting headache that has him visibly wincing. He spies the water bottle in the man’s hand and his stomach twists at the sight of it.
“Crazily enough, you are not the first person to vomit on my shoes.” The guy informs him, a shy smile gracing his lips.
“Oh please don’t be nice to me,” Kevin begs, “I mean, I ruined your night. I ruined Arnold’s night.” The fact that this man probably has no idea who Arnold is doesn’t even register in his mind.
He tries to tell him why he actually agreed when Arnold half-heartedly asked him to come tonight, how he was just sad and lonely and didn’t want to think about what he would do if he were alone tonight. Somehow, this long, coherent explanation that formulates in his head doesn’t make the translation to his mouth as he very passionately and visibly on the verge of tears declares, “I wasn’t invited to my aunt Mirren’s annual sandwich social.”
“Uh,” The guy blinks, and it’s then that Kevin belatedly notices that he has very pretty eyes, “I’m sorry?”
“I didn’t want to go. I was going to say no,” Kevin heaves a little (luckily no vomit escapes his lips this time) and continues, “I always hated going. It was way too crowded in that stupid suburban house and the ‘games’ she’d make us play were boring and she always overcooked the ham. But I wanted to be asked, you know? I want to be able to at least pretend that I’m not the family’s disappointment.” The stranger doesn’t respond and just continues to stare at him with a vague mixture of confusion and wonder.
Unable to take the man’s gaze, Kevin looks down at his ruined shirt and the man’s ruined shoes. He thinks he might actually cry but a laugh escapes his lips instead, “I’m going to Hell.”
“Hey now,” The man exclaims, smiling slightly in disbelief, “That's an over-exaggeration. These aren’t even Gucci.”
“Not for that,” Kevin then leans in, belatedly realizing that the guy probably doesn’t want to smell his putrid breath, and whispers, “I drink coffee. I say damn. Hell, I’m a declared enemy of the LDS Church,” He pauses, amending, “Well, I don’t know if it’s in writing somewhere or anything. I just received a very strongly worded letter from the Mission President and sort of filled in the blanks myself.”
“You’re Mormon?” He says it without disgust or disdain; he sounds…well, amazed. Terribly confused and slightly panicked, but amazed nonetheless.
Kevin shakes his head but winces at how the action seems to knock his brain around, “Not anymore. I helped start a cult in Africa.” It sounds ridiculous to say it out loud to someone who has no idea of the circumstances, how difficult and heartbreaking the journey was for him to turn his back on everything he ever knew and once held dear.
The man seems to notice his obvious pain and offers his half-empty bottle of water to him. Kevin looks at it like it’s an infested dead rat. The guy scoffs and unscrews the cap himself, placing it in the other’s hand forcefully, “It’ll help with the pain. I think I saw club crackers in the kitchen. Want me to go get them?”
Kevin shakes his head, “My friends should be here soon.” He stares at the water and grimaces, feeling a new wave of nausea overcome him. Ah, fuck it. He drains the water bottle in a few long, loud slurps, aware of the man’s scared yet slightly amused eyes on him. When he’s finished, he holds the empty bottle out to him and is actually able to focus on the man’s features for the first time.
He’s redheaded with light dusts of freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose and at the top of his cheekbones. He’s a generic sort of handsome that Kevin usually hardly notices, but there’s something—the glint in his wide blue eyes, the straightened slope of his shoulders, the raised brow knitted in concern, the sympathetic twist in his mouth—that makes him look twice. He takes the most pause on the other's mouth, absently wondering if he would mind the taste of vodka on his tongue.
“You’re adorable.” Kevin blurts out. The guy is surprised by the comment, a light blush decorating his cheeks. He acts like one drunk guy complimenting another vomit-covered guy isn’t a natural occurrence.
And then the boy actually smiles at him, a welcomed change to the crooked grin that had been permanently etched into his face, “No, I’m Connor.” Kevin doesn't even register the joke and takes the greeting with a smile and nod.
“Kevin Price.” Like his mother raised him, he extends a hand that closes the distance between them. Connor looks hesitant at first but just as he slowly moves to take his hand—
“Kevin, we need to leave.” Arnold bursts through the door with a heavily intoxicated and heavily pissed Nabulungi plastered to his side, sparing a glance inside the house with a clear look of panic, “We are in danger of, and I quote, ‘having our bodies bent into new furniture as a gift for his mother on her birthday.’”
“I spit in the fact of that coward.” Nabulungi wrestles against Arnold’s grasp but she’s too drunk to overpower him, “And then I will cut off his dick to present to his mother as a gift for her birthday.”
Kevin hears a commotion within the house and watches Arnold turn pale. Without another word, he grips the wrist of Kevin’s outstretched arm and yanks him away, running even faster than on free donut day in the cafeteria. Distantly, he hears Connor call a goodbye after him, and the rest fades into oblivion.
:: - ::
The next morning, all Kevin can remember about that night is the stranger’s concerned blue eyes and the name Connor on his lips.
Oh, and the vomit.