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Raffy is uncomfortable — he wakes up with a hangover in someone's bed. It’s strange, awkward — though what kind of awkwardness can there be when, in the short time they’ve known each other, they’ve already crossed past that point — but still, being in Rome’s bed, and Raffy is sure it’s his room and his bed, feels wrong. Especially considering he barely remembers what led up to this.
It’s like a new level of friendship — or whatever Rome wants to call their strange interactions and meetings for a single purpose — the one that Raffy isn’t ready for. Rome opens the door to his home, to trust, and Raffy isn’t sure he deserves that trust or can live up to it.
“Awake?” Rome’s voice is surprisingly energetic for Raffy’s state, and it makes him wonder how long he’s been asleep.
He should say something — thanks or a jab — but all Raffy manages is a hoarse:
“Why am I here?”
“You got drunk and caused trouble,” Rome smirks. Raffy looks up at him and instantly regrets it — his head spins, his vision blurs, but he clearly catches that smirk and burns it into memory before shutting his eyes again. “You’re not exactly lightweight, by the way.”
“I mean,” Raffy mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “how did I end up here with you?”
“Let’s start with the fact that I didn’t do anything,” Rome shrugs, hoping for at least some awareness from Raffy — and in his mind flash bright lights and glasses of alcohol he kept downing without taking his eyes off the DJ.
“Want to have some fun?” Raffy ignores the crowd around Rome.
“What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t you say you’d be ready whenever I called?”
After that, Raffy's memory turns to fog — Rome says something sharp, drags him out of the sweat- and alcohol-soaked club into a smoking area that reeks just as much. Raffy gets angry, plays on jealousy, some guy with glasses who, in his drunken state, could pass for Jack — and then Rome again, his hands on Raffy’s waist, pulling him away from a mistake.
“Let me go!” Raffy struggles, but Rome’s grip doesn’t allow him even a step. “I want to drown in something wild tonight.”
“Wild?” Rome pulls him closer, breathing against his lips. “Go wild with me then.”
And Raffy lets himself be led — whether it’s the alcohol in his blood or the sober intention that brought him to the very club where Rome was performing — it doesn’t matter anymore.
“I don’t sleep with drunk people,” Rome interrupts Raffy’s attempt to piece together the night. “Just didn’t want you waking up regretting sleeping with someone less hot than me,” he smirks, and Raffy exhales — that sounds familiar, just Rome being sarcastic.
“God, can you talk quieter this early?” Raffy doesn’t know what to say, just tries to keep the conversation minimal. He still feels awful — hangover, memory gaps — he needs quiet, and preferably painkillers. And a shower.
Raffy looks down at himself, notices he’s wearing someone’s T-shirt with a bold “I am (not) your backup plan” printed on it. He gets oddly caught up in the meaning, running his fingers over the fabric as if checking the letters.
“That’s my T-shirt,” Rome notices immediately. Raffy jerks his head up and regrets it — his temples pound like club beats. “Here,” Rome sets a cup down, “I made you coffee.”
Raffy eyes him suspiciously — generous, for Rome. Not just bringing him home drunk, but also taking care of his hangover. With a groan, Raffy gets up, swaying, grabs onto anything solid and nearly collapses onto the table. He wants to thank Rome, but first, he’s not used to this kind of treatment, and second, saying "thank you" sincerely is difficult. Because of Rome — as much as Raffy hates to admit it — something warms under his ribs, tightens his throat with unspoken things.
“Sleep with me — free breakfast,” Rome winks, handing him a plate of eggs, leaning dangerously close, looking straight into his eyes. Like always, forcing Raffy to search for a sharp comeback. No one else can do that.
Raffy needs to distract himself, change the subject, not give in to that playful glint — but Rome seems to understand, stepping back to his DJ setup. Raffy exhales quietly, hiding his awkwardness behind a cup of coffee, admitting Rome makes it well. Good enough for his refined taste.
He looks around the room — cozy, minimalistic, just what’s needed for everyday life. Not as spacious as his own, but he’s not sure he’d want this. Rome’s place feels warmer, more alive, room is breathing — and Raffy wonders why it’s so hard to breathe at home.
“Do you have somewhere to be today?” Rome asks, not looking away from his laptop.
“I’ve got classes at one.”
Rome says nothing. Raffy turns, confused — it doesn’t feel like a hint to leave. But there’s no continuation either.
“Why are you asking?” Raffy presses.
Rome briefly gestures for silence, listens to the beat, nods to himself, smiles. Raffy gets stuck watching him — never admitting it — Rome is beautiful when he’s doing what he loves.
Rome removes his headphones — and Raffy doesn’t have time to look away before they meet eyes.
“Like what you see?” Rome teases.
“Just waiting for you to finish talking,” Raffy snaps, turning away.
“You know, if you miss me, you can listen to my tracks on YouTube.”
“Sure. When you hit at least a hundred thousand subscribers.”
Rome shrugs as if it doesn’t affect him — though why should it? Because of Raffy’s words, which, as Rome knows, are often thoughtless and meant to provoke a reaction? Rome is smart enough not to fall for something so childish.
“Alright,” he calls a truce. “Since you’ve got a few free hours, I can suggest something to do.”
Raffy catches the implication, smirks — but Rome laughs.
“I already know what you’re thinking. Not that.”
Raffy visibly deflates. His drunken confession echoes in his memory, painfully — no one wants me — and it’s not even about sex. He’s just not needed. Useless. Everyone deserves someone better than Raffy, he knows that perfectly well, but Rome, it seems, still wants to stay with him a little longer than just for one night.
“Can you play billiards?” Rome asks.
“Billiards?”
“Well, yeah. You hit balls on a table with a long stick.”
“I know what it is,” Raffy rolls his eyes at Rome’s quiet chuckle. “Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t see a billiard table here.”
“It’s on another floor,” Rom shrugs.
“I thought you only had one.”
“We’ve got two,” the DJ explains. “This is the basement — I don’t count it. So there are two more.”
“You don’t live alone?” Raffi feels even more uncomfortable.
“With my mom and stepdad,” Rom says calmly. “They’re not home, you can relax.”
“Doesn’t Jack live with you?”
Rom’s lips twitch slightly — Raffi is asking the wrong question again.
“No,” he says sharply, but not rough. “He moved out a few years ago when he started dating Dean.” Softer now, but it stings Raffy more — as Rome intends. He needs Raffy to understand that Jack is someone he has to let go of.
Raffy frowns, thinking. Rome leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching him — the tension in Raffy’s back under his T-shirt, the whitened knuckles gripping the plate he gave him, the way he nervously bites lips that kissed him — him, not Jack — but Raffy doesn’t notice.
“Pool?” Rome repeats, snapping his fingers in front of Raffy’s face.
“Boring,” Raffy pushes his hand away, reaching for the plate.
“Afraid to lose?”
“Afraid you’ll be upset when you lose,” Raffy shoots back.
“Oh, I’m not losing.”
They go upper floor — Raffy looks around the space again, comparing it to his own home. No luxury, no designer furniture or interior, but tasteful. With the warmth of a lived-in home, where every room feels alive, not like a polished ideal that’s too fragile to touch for fear of breaking it.
“By the way, forgot to mention — we’re playing by special rules,” Rome says, handing him a cue.
“What rules?”
“Mine,” Rome smiles, setting up the balls. “I tell you which ball to sink into which pocket and in how many attempts. If you fail — you answer one of my questions honestly.”
“And if I succeed?”
“We keep playing. When you miss and answer, it’s my turn — same rules.”
From Raffy’s expression it becomes perfectly clear that he doesn’t like these rules, but he’s not going to refuse either — Rome has basically called his bluff. And Raffy really hates losing, really hates when people doubt him. It’s cruel to take advantage of someone else’s weaknesses, but Rome wants to believe he’s justifying his actions with a desire to understand Raffy better, to help Raffy understand himself too.
“Or maybe…” Raffy moves closer with deliberate grace, pressing Rome lightly against the edge of the table, hooking a finger into the collar of his T-shirt and pulling him closer, his hungry gaze drifting from Rome’s neck to his lips and, like the final point on map, to his eyes. Rome swallows, but this time he doesn’t fall for Raffy’s provocation like he did back at the pool — he has more questions for Raffy’s mind than for his body, and he’s sure there will be time to deal with those later.
“So you are afraid to lose,” Rome concludes boldly. Raffy lets his shirt go and steps back — it becomes easier for Rome to breathe. Raffy really can be intoxicating, easily capable of changing Rome’s mind if he pushes just a little harder, but Raffy is too busy drowning himself in the need to prove he’s worth something.
“Just tell me the ball to hit and where,” Raffy says sharply, spotting the chalk and starting to rub it over the cue. “And I have a condition. No questions about Jack.”
Frankly, Rome doesn’t care about Jack or what Raffy thinks about him — that’s already obvious. It wasn’t part of his plan anyway.
“No problem.”
Raffy nods, looking over the balls. Rome removes the triangle, and Raffy places the cue ball in a comfortable position for the break.
“I have a condition too,” Rome says, waiting for the balls to scatter across the table. “No questions about Jack either.”
Raffy frowns but agrees. Rome won’t let this game give Raffy a chance to dig up anything new about Jack. Of course, he considers that Raffy might try to get something about Dean instead, but Rome himself doesn’t know much — and what he does know has already spread through the theater chat thanks to some “anonymous account.”
Rome decides to start by testing Raffy’s skills — he chooses the striped eleven.
“This one,” he points. “Into the middle pocket. Two shots.”
Raffy sinks it in one, throws Rome a smug look and smirks. Rome nods, though he knows the shot was easy — it was obvious Raffy would make it.
In truth, Raffy has a lot he wants to ask, but he’s not sure he wants to hear the answers. He’s lost — what does he want from Rome? And he doubts Rome could answer that when Raffy doesn’t know himself.
“Your choice looks like you’re testing how difficult the shots can be.”
“You’re pretty good at logic, aren’t you?”
“Not just that,” Raffy rolls his eyes.
Rome points to another ball and pocket. Raffy keeps playing well, sinking one ball after another, but the red three misses the middle pocket on the last attempt. Now it’s Rome’s turn to ask.
“Why did you decide to become an actor?”
Not the question Raffy expected. He thought Rome would bring up the leaked video with Dean, or ask how Raffy feels about him, or why he showed up drunk at the club where Rome was performing — anything Raffy would rather not think about at all. And that throws him off balance.
“My mom’s an actress, if you hadn’t noticed,” Raffy says, trying to sound detached. “I guess it’s natural — kids in famous families follow in their footsteps.”
“And is that what you want?”
“I haven’t lost the second round yet.”
Rome huffs but nods — Raffy has clearly caught on to the rules. One loss — one question.
They keep playing, now with Rome following Raffy’s instructions — and Raffy deliberately makes the shots harder than the ones he was given.
“Why did you bring me here?” Raffy asks as the yellow one bounces off the rail and misses the pocket. This question has been cutting through his thoughts since he woke up, and Rome’s earlier answer clearly wasn’t the truth. “You said before I wouldn’t get anything else from you.”
Rome looks thoughtful, choosing his words — either figuring out how to phrase it or trying to understand himself.
“Honestly, I didn’t want to help you,” Rome says, and Raffy exhales quietly as something twists painfully in his chest. “But hearing what you were saying and seeing you hitting on some guy who probably got scared and could’ve gotten hurt — I felt sorry for you. I’m a good guy. I don’t leave friends in trouble.” There’s that ironic tone again, like he can’t speak seriously for long.
The turn goes back to Raffy, and he sinks two more balls. Rome asks again about acting, and this time Raffy admits honestly that he doesn’t even know if he likes it.
“You know you don’t have to go down that path, right?” Rome adds — not as part of the game, just as advice. “You don’t have to do something your heart isn’t in just because your mom is famous.”
Raffy says nothing, just points to the next shot combination. Rome makes one, but the second ball goes into the wrong pocket. Turn over — and a new question.
“Are you mad at me about that video?”
“So you admit it was your fault?”
“I admit I did it,” Raffiy says. He doesn’t feel guilty about the methods he uses against Dean. That’s their war — Rome shouldn’t be involved.
“I’m not mad about the video,” Rome says, exhaling heavily. “I’m mad that you don’t see anything except a chance to get at Dean. It’s not just about him, you know? Do you even know what kind of people go to those parties? If something leaks online, it could affect you, me, Dean — everyone who was there. I warned you. Asked you to keep what you saw to yourself. But you didn’t listen — or didn’t want to — because you only care about yourself and your gain. And what did you get out of it?”
Raffy grips the cue tighter — Rome’s words cut deeper than any blade.
“So no, I’m not mad about the video. And I’m not really mad at you. I’m just disappointed.”
Raffy stays silent. So does Rome. The game stops being fun. Raffy doesn’t want to ask anything anymore — it’s already clear how Rome sees him. Dishonest, reckless, stuck in his rivalry and dirty games — Raffy feels disgusted with himself.
“Three into the middle pocket in three shots,” Rome announces the next move. Raffy doesn’t move.
“I don’t want to play anymore,” he forces out, dropping the cue onto the table.
“Truth hurts?” Rome says with a quiet scoff, placing his cue down as well. “Did you think your actions wouldn’t have consequences?”
“I have to go.”
Raffy quickly heads back downstairs, to Rome’s room, changes into his own clothes, grabs his phone. He deletes the video with Dean — from the gallery, from the chat — as if that could turn back time.
When he comes back upstairs to leave, Rome is still standing there, leaning against the billiard table, just watching him go.
Raffy isn’t planning to say goodbye, but he hears Rome’s voice as he opens the door:
“But I’m glad you’re starting to understand.”
Raffy leaves without turning around.
Outside Rome’s house, it becomes hard to breathe again.