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When Tommy agreed to go to this party with Tubbo, he did not think it'd be like this.
He thought it'd be more girls and talking, and not... People being oddly sensual in every corner of the house.
Okay, yeah, they were either drunk or tipsy — but to be fair, so was he. And you didn't see him making out with anyone, did you?
Tommy turned to face his friends, complaints on the tip of his tongue, but they were standing further away than he thought, so he ended up looking straight across the room at some random person.
And he was looking back.
Great.
Awkward eye contact time. How fun.
Tommy looked the guy up and down — purely to break the eye contact in a way that made him seem judgy and not like a total loser.
You know, as people do.
Except.
Wait.
Fuck.
The guy was hot.
He had blond hair like Tommy, albeit more dirty blond compared to his own yellow-y gold mess, and was wearing a purple hoodie with black cargo trousers — which, really? In the middle of summer?
Looking back up, Tommy caught his eyes again, but this time he just looked amused — a far cry from his bored expression from just a minute ago — and, fuck, if that didn't just make the dude hotter.
The LED lights on the ceiling changed colour, and Tommy was able to focus more.
What the fuck.
He had purple eyes, black eyeliner, and a fucking nose piercing.
Tommy was absolutely being fucked over by God right now — if the heat in his cheeks and entire face said anything, that was.
"Tubbo," Tommy said, looking behind the guy instead of at him in a pitiful attempt to force his cheeks to cool down.
(Spoiler alert: it didn't work.)
"Tubbo. Tubbo this is urgent," he tried again, to no avail, "Tubbo is it gay to want to make out with a guy I've never even spoken to?"
Tommy finally turned to look at Tubbo and-
He wasn't even there. Great.
Tubbo was probably off somewhere chugging alcohol whilst Ranboo was trying to get him to stop.
Which was all well and good, you know, fun for them!
Except Tommy was stuck staring at a random stranger that he'd just announced he wanted to make out with.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy saw the dude getting closer.
Fuck.
Could he hear that? Fuck, did he just hear Tommy blurt out to absolutely nobody at all but his conscience that he wanted to make out with someone he'd never even had a conversation with?
Okay, he was 100% doomed.
"Y'know, for someone who goes around reminding everyone of how straight they are, you spend a lot of time staring at guys across the room," Tommy absolutely did NOT jump at that (since when was the dude in hearing distance?), and anyone that says otherwise is a pathological liar. "You do that often?"
Tommy's face flushed even redder, "I wasn't staring, I was just—"
Quick. Think of a good excuse. Something believable.
"—Thinking about how great the drinks here are! And you just happened to be in the direction I was looking."
Shit.
Why would he say that?
He'd barely even had any of the drinks?
The other guy did not look convinced. He just looked (even more) amused.
"Uh-huh, and thinking about alcohol involves looking people up and down, and then asking if it's gay to want to make out with a guy you've never spoken to. Which, by the way — yes, it is. It's incredibly gay. Especially for a 'straight guy,'" he said the last words whilst making quotation marks with his fingers.
Okay. So he did hear. That or he could read lips.
Either way, to reiterate, Tommy was fucked.
He spluttered for an answer, "Okay, either way. You were looking at me first — we only made eye contact because you were already looking at me?"
"Hey, what can I say. You're hot — of course I was looking at you," he shrugged.
...Fuck. Was that flirting? Was someone flirting with Tommy? Someone who was actually good-looking and not just some twat looking for a laugh?
In a random burst of confidence, Tommy grabbed the front of the guy's hoodie, and pulled him in. Hard.
...Except he'd overestimated the amount of force needed and just threw both himself and the guy back into the wall behind them, the latter of such ending up with his arms either side of Tommy — effectively caging him in.
So basically he'd just gotten himself cornered trying to kiss a stranger.
"Fuck, that hurt."
"I mean, you did just throw yourself into a wall. And drag me with you."
"That wasn't even the goal, you prick," Tommy's face burned in embarrassment. If this kept happening, he'd probably burn his face with the amount of heat it kept gathering - that was how these things worked, right?
"Uh huh, sure," he replied, sarcasm evident.
Before Tommy could form a reply (probably just an insult to the guy's current clothing choice), there were hands on his face and lips on his lips, and blond hair in his eyes.
To be quite frank, it was horrible — Tommy's head wasn't turned at all, both of them had the lingering taste of alcohol in their mouths, and they were both clearly unused to the feeling of another person's lips on their own — but every point of contact was searing, and Tommy couldn't think straight, and his knees were weak, and holy fuck that felt good.
The hands on his face moved down and came to rest on his waist — and Tommy's own hands moved in turn; one threaded through the guy's hair, and the other on his neck, pulling him impossibly closer — as if their bodies, their souls, their consciousnesses, could meld together and become one.
The guy deepened the kiss and Tommy just let him, fully engrossed in the moment; completely enthralled by this total stranger.
His attention had never been so honed in on a singular thing before — this guy just made him feel a certain way.
They'd barely held a conversation, and yet Tommy felt listened to.
They'd done nothing other than exchange a few words (and make out), and yet Tommy felt seen, understood.
The guy knew none of his flaws — yet it felt as though he'd accept them all, without question.
It was intoxicating.
Though—
Tommy pulled away, "Wait, how old are you?"
"Seventeen," his voice sounded slightly hoarse and Tommy flushed.
"Uh huh, and what about your name?" He continued, "Because I can't keep thinking of you as just 'some guy' in my head"
Tommy didn't really hear a reply, per se, but instead felt it — making it apparent that the guy'd been leaning in again, gradually.
"Purpled," he'd mumbled, before pressing his lips back against Tommy's properly and immediately going to re-deepen the kiss.
Purpled.
What a fucking cringy name.