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Summary
“Djoos,” Andre sing-songs, right into his face. Christian laughs and shoves him gently, at the cost of letting go of his ice pack. “We should go out. I’ll be your wingman, and you can get laid and everything won’t seem so dire after that.”
“I don’t want to go out,” seems like the most logical refusal right at that moment.
Andre shrugs. “We don’t have to,” he says. “It was just a suggestion.” He slumps back into his corner of the couch, picking up his game controller. Christian fumbles to get his ice pack back in the right spot. “Or,” Andre says after a while of quiet. “I could get you off.”
Christian chokes on absolutely nothing.
