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When Bad saw it was Skeppy calling, he almost didn’t want to pick up.
This visit had been pretty frustrating so far. Skeppy wouldn’t stop asking about moving in, even when Bad told him to drop it, and it just soured his mood. Then Skeppy wanted to go to the club that night, and when Bad told him he was too tired, he said he’d just go by himself. He thought he was joking—thought for sure they’d put the argument aside and settle on the couch, maybe even cuddle a little while they watched a movie—but no. Skeppy actually went out by himself, leaving Bad alone in his apartment.
Bad had just gone down for bed at about two in the morning, when his phone rang and he was forced to make the choice. Be nice and pick up, or keep giving him the cold shoulder.
Of course, something could actually be wrong, and that possibility won the argument. Bad picked up the call on the last ring and held the phone to his ear.
“Baaaad,” Skeppy slurred his name. “I’m sooooo drunk. Can you please come pick me up? I don’t know how to get home…”
“Oh my goodness.” Bad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can’t you call an uber?”
“I don’t want to, I’m too drunk. ” Skeppy giggled, like this was all some game to him, and though Bad burned with ire, he cooled the flames by reminding himself that Skeppy was vulnerable right now. Alone and intoxicated. It would be the right thing to do to go pick him up.
“Fine. Where are you?”
Skeppy told him the name of the club, and Bad put it in his phone, then paused when he saw the description on the map.
“Um. Skeppy. Are you at a gay club?”
“Yeah?” Skeppy giggled, his smile shining through his words. “Why?”
“Nevermind. Whatever. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Okay! Bye-bye, love you!” Skeppy hung up, and Bad just hung his head in his hands for a moment.
Time to put his shoes back on and find the keys to his car. Gosh, how he wished he had just gone to sleep.
…
Initially, Bad just stood outside and called Skeppy, intending to tell him to come out. It would cost him something like $40 just to get in, and he didn’t intend to stay, so why pay the fee? But Skeppy wasn’t picking up. His phone wasn’t dead, because the ringer was ringing, he just wasn’t picking up.
Bad tried three times before his worry got the best of him, and he got in line and paid for the overpriced entrance ticket.
It was dark and sweaty and crowded inside. Everyone was stumbling, well into their Friday night drinking. Bad kept his head down and scanned the crowd from under the brim of his hat, keeping his expression stern and unapproachable. He really didn’t want to get sidetracked talking to drunk guys. He was just there to get Skeppy.
He couldn’t see him anywhere on the dancefloor, though. He peeked around at the booths in the corners, then moved to the bar, but there was still no sign of him.
“What can I get for you?” The bartender asked when he approached.
“Um—nothing—I was actually just wondering, have you seen… this guy anywhere around?” He pulled up a picture of Skeppy on his phone, zoomed in on his face, and showed the guy.
“Uh, sorry. I can’t say.”
“Ugh. I came to pick him up but now he won’t pick up my calls and I’m just worried. I swear, I’m his friend.”
The bartender made a face like he didn’t quite believe him, but then a couple sitting next to him turned and asked to see the picture. Bad showed them, and they laughed.
“Yeah dude, he was just here. A guy bought him shots, and then they went to the bathroom.”
Bad felt his stomach drop.
“Shots? Oh my gosh. He was already so drunk when he called me!” Bad took off for the bathrooms, panic pushing his blood past his ears with a pounding vengeance. In his head, he was already imagining Skeppy bent over the toilet, puking his brains out, or worse, comatose on the floor of the stall. He went through the logistics in his head, whether it’d be faster to call an ambulance or drive him to the ER himself, but when he opened the door, all that immediately left his mind.
Skeppy was in the bathroom alright. And so was—presumably—the man who’d bought him shots. He had Skeppy pressed against the wall, hands on his ass, holding up his legs which were wrapped around his back. They were clothed, at least, but Skeppy’s hands were in his short, curly hair, and their mouths were locked in a deep, sloppy kiss, the wet sound of tongue and spit and moans echoing through the tiled room.
“Skeppy?” Bad’s voice squeaked, and immediately he pulled away, eyes wide and face red.
“Huh?” the guy looked back at him, one brow raised.
“Oh shit. Um. I’m so sorry—”
“Are you kidding me?” Bad broke into a yell, the building stress in his core finally snapping. “I called you three times! I thought you were sick or unconscious or—or—or worse! And then I finally find you and you’re making out with some random guy!?”
“Uh…” The guy dropped Skeppy’s legs. “My bad, dude. He didn’t say he had a boyfriend.”
Skeppy chewed his lip, looking at Bad like he might cry, and Bad sighed.
Neither of them had the energy to correct the guy, it seemed.
“Just—come on. I’m taking you home.”
“Okay.” Skeppy scurried forward, said again in a small voice: “I’m sorry.”
Bad didn’t say anything else. He did, however, keep a hand on Skeppy’s back as they made their way through the club and to the exit, determined not to lose him in the crowd. Skeppy stumbled a little as they walked to the car, clearly quite drunk, but at least he proved he could string a few words together. He probably just needed to drink plenty of water and sleep it off.
…
They were silent in the car. After the deafening crush of the club, that silence was especially potent, ringing in Bad’s ears as he tried to keep his eyes on the road ahead, tried to keep his mind from replaying that scene over and over again.
He failed, of course. He imagined it from start to finish, filled in details as he went. Some tall, hot guy seeing Skeppy giggling at the bar and knowing he was already drunk. Ordering him more shots anyways, so it’d be easy to pull him away, to push him into the wall and touch his hips, his thighs, his ass. To shove his tongue down his throat. And then, of course, whatever else he planned to do. Whatever would have happened if Bad wasn’t there.
He parked, turned the key, and the car went dead quiet.
Skeppy gulped.
“I’m sorry,” he said for a third time.
“I’m not mad,” Bad said.
“You are,” Skeppy said, and Bad didn’t correct him.
“Would you just—I don’t know. Why do you self-destruct like this, Skeppy?”
“What are you talking about?” Skeppy blinked at him, the movement slow, and Bad let out a long sigh. Right. He was definitely too drunk for this conversation.
Bad shook his head and got out of the car. Came around and opened Skeppy’s door, helped him out and into the lobby, up the elevator and back to his apartment. Skeppy slumped into the couch, letting out a long groan, and then huffed and rolled over to look at Bad.
“He thought you were my boyfriend,” he said.
Bad froze, then laughed stiffly.
“Okay. Who cares?”
“You care.”
“You care. Clearly.”
Bad gave him a long, appraising look, and then clicked his tongue.
“Did you do that on purpose?” he asked. “To make me jealous, or something?”
“Did it work?”
Bad felt his heart drop into his stomach, and Skeppy grinned, his sleepy eyes half-closed.
“JealousBoyHalo. Should’ve come and…” Skeppy paused, searching for the right words. “Could’ve been you.”
Bad rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a long, frustrated groan.
“I cannot believe you, Skeppy. You are—ugh!” Bad marched to the kitchen, fuming at the giggles that followed from the living room. Still, he filled a glass with water and brought it back to Skeppy.
“Just. Shut up and drink,” he said, pressing the glass into his hands and sitting him up. “Then you’re going to bed. And no more clubbing. Not while I’m here.”
Skeppy smiled around the rim of the glass.
“You should stay, if you really want to keep an eye on me.”
Bad glared at him, but Skeppy just laughed, and Bad let it slide. He was going to tear into him when he was sober again, but drunk Skeppy didn’t know that. All he knew was that he’d successfully made Bad jealous—and apparently that was all he wanted.