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Ryland is usually level-headed most days. In most arguments, critical moments, and bad timings, Ryland always manages to make choices that result in rather favorable outcomes. He’s the golden kid with straight A’s and a clean slate. That friend who you can always count on to have notes from that one unrequired class with the most units because you couldn’t bother to stay awake for it. He stays away from trouble, and you’d expect trouble to stay away from him.
But boy, were Ryland and his team of neurodivergent buddies naive. Trouble has managed to find and latch onto him this late evening.
Colt is distressed. And very obviously so even as he stumbles through the crowded hallway of a frat house they never even meant to go into. But Tom had insisted they were giving out free drinks as a substitute for happy hour, (“That’s what happy hour typically is, dipshit” Colt had said an hour earlier when they were in a very different frat house) so here they are; Ryland missing in this two-storey piece of shit compound that’s filled with alcohol to the brim, Colt disoriented by multiple shots of vodka, Tom unaware of all this fuss and busy impressing some big-eyed freshmen, and Simon also fucking missing.
“Ry! Goddamnit,” the film major mutters as he shoves past writhing bodies up the winding stairs, hoping to God he doesn’t find his twin brother in an awkward predicament involving pants and hands. A palm reaches from a dark corner towards Colt, much to his surprise and disdain. “Hands off the ass, dude! This guy’s straight and taken!”
He has no idea how many shots Tom had ordered for him, but he might as well be lifted on a gurney with how uncooperative his feet are being with him. There had been two tall glasses of beer shoved into his arms, a tray of rainbow shots, and a beer keg rolled to his side. His fate was practically sealed in bitter and bubbly orange liquid, and honestly? He was loving it until he remembered he had brought his brother with him to celebrate his thesis approval from a class that Colt would’ve failed three semesters ago if not for the existence of his very loving girlfriend Jody.
But back to the point. Ryland was missing. And Colt still hasn’t found him, having searched the entire ground floor and nearly giving up on finding him on the first floor. Everyone looked the fucking same, and the shitty Amazon-bought laser lights weren’t helping the fact that he was drunk and seeing double of everything.
Leaning his tilted body over the banister of the balcony overlooking the main room, he spots Tom letting out a performative whistle by the pool table, cue stick lifting from the green surface and teeth glinting with blue and purple ego.
A hand rests on Colt’s shoulder and he’s about to tell the guy to piss off and stop touching him, but is suddenly met by dark eyes and an equally dark expression.
“Jesus Christ, Simon. Don’t scare a drunk guy like that,” he chuckles and shrugs off the heavy hand. Simon’s face remains unchanged.
“Where’s Ryland?”
“I’m looking for him too, man.” The engineering major looks at him expectantly. He’s got a beat up leather jacket on with some heavy duty jeans he probably wears on a regular basis to his basement and a very intimidating aura brought along with him. “No luck, I combed the ground floor and nothing. Twin telepathy would hit me by now, but I am so close to throwing up my dinner. I don’t think I can move anymore.”
“Colt!” A sharp voice cuts through the heavy bass.
It’s Jody, his very beautiful girlfriend. And she looks distraught. But because Colt is so wasted and gone, he can’t even ask if she found Ryland and wraps her into a hug, head collapsing onto hers. “Oh Jodes, I missed you,” he says happily.
“Shit, Seavers, you stink like this place. I haven’t found Ryland yet,” she shouts and turns to look at Simon who is surveying the dance floor like some hired hitman-slash-bodyguard. “Did you?” Simon shakes his head in her direction.
Looking at her gooey boyfriend and at the large mass of indistinguishable bodies moving about the active dance floor, she sighs and forces Colt to stand properly, tapping Simon’s arm to get his attention.
“Colt isn’t any use at finding his brother,” she states, ignoring his ‘hey!’.
“So I’m bringing him home. You on the other hand,” she points a manicured nail at the brooding man, “have not consumed a single drop of alcohol. I know you’re here for Ryland, not the party.”
Simon inhales, about to say a protest but thinks better as Jody raises a sharp eyebrow.
“And I also know that Tom brought us here because of Ryland. So you’re going to team up with him— ah ah! Don’t growl like some rabid dog, you weirdo. You’re going to team up with Tom and find Colt’s brother,” she says with finality and gently taps her boyfriend’s cheek to wake him.
As they descend the staircase, Jody looks over her shoulder and straight into Simon’s face. “Don’t expect Colt to be at their shared apartment. Find Ryland, drive him home, and leave us a text. Jody out.”
“Bring my brother home safe or it’s your and Tom’s spines!”
“Easy shit,” Tom smirks and clicks his tongue in mock pity at his opponent’s poor luck. “Let me know when you get your angle right, Nicks. That was just awful.”
He lets out a condescending laugh and takes a large sip from his low-carb organic lager, passively scanning the crowd around him, and spotting Jody and Colt walking out the double-door entrance. He nearly spits his beer out when he catches Jody’s intense stare, hard feminine gaze almost biting out do what you’re supposed to do, dickwad. Then she looks up behind Tom.
Following her gaze, he spots Simon standing eerily at the balcony, a single hand resting on the shiny banister. Why the hell is he looking at Tom like he’s the one who committed a felony? Okay Christ, that was below the belt.
Tom glances down at the cue stick in his hand and back up at the man staring daggers into his handsome face. He’s still staring. Where the hell was Ryland anyway? He was supposed to be showing him around the VIP lounge upstairs.
Okay fine, whatever.
The blonde finds himself climbing up the stairs with practiced nonchalance, silk shirt and blow out hair smoothed in a way that attracts the few sorority girls leaning against the curved walls. It doesn’t take long to reach the bulky guy— probably from all those protein shakes and bench press whatnots— and leans against the handrail, putting on an unamused face in retaliation to Simon’s moody expression.
“So what’s up with miss bossy director and self-proclaimed stuntman leaving the party so early? Happy hour just got started,” Tom half-shouts, glancing at his Rolex with the long hand pointing at one and the short one at half-past six. He lifts his gaze when no reply comes rumbling at him.
“What the hell you staring at—”
“While you were busy shooting balls and flaunting your ass at people, Ryland got lost.”
His eyes nearly pop out of his sockets. “You lost him!?”
“We, you dumb fuck. You weren’t looking after him any better than Colt and I did,” Simon grumbles, eyes moving along the dark crowds in hopes of spotting a lost blonde nerd.
Tom’s neck feels flushed. The alcohol is probably catching up to him, he thinks, with the way his head sways and his heart beats a fraction faster. And he does admit he wasn’t paying attention to where Ryland was going. But the place doesn’t even halve his pension house! He was sure they wouldn’t lose sight of that walking PG-13 label.
But now, they did. And Colt and Jody have left the search to them; a living and breathing example of doomsday music as a human, and him, a smoldering beauty that just probably scared Ryland off with how overwhelming his charm was.
“Whatever, I know this place like the back of my hand! I’ll find him before you even get a whiff of his scent.”
Simon’s eyes snap back to him, something scorching beneath those dark brown circles. He takes a step into the other’s space. “Are you calling me a dog, shithead?”
“A mutt,” Tom corrects, tone dropping lowly as he leans forward, foreheads close enough to bump. A hand buries itself into his Saint Laurent shirt.
Before the tension can escalate, someone is shouting excitedly at the table below the balcony. There are more shouts and whoops, hands clapping and feet stomping to the beat of the music. The spotlights zero in on a figure standing on the dining table, trapped in a circle of people.
It’s Ryland. And he’s lost his flannel, sleeves of his dark periodic table rolled up to expose lean and humble biceps flexing as he pumps his fists in the air. His blonde fringe sticks to his forehead and a sheen layer of sweat slicks his entire figure. It’s almost like he’s glowing.
Simon and Tom both stare at the scene unraveling before them.
“Where the hell is his belt?” is the only thing Tom manages to say. “And his glasses? How the hell can he even see?”
A hand holding a beer mug sticks out from the messy pool of drunk teenagers and Ryland grabs it quickly with the staggering elegance of a wasted frat boy before either men could even process the alcohol being distributed to their golden angel.
A fucking frat boy is what Ryland is reduced into with just a few shots and a deafening spotify playlist
“Holy shit,” Tom murmurs as the biochemistry major throws his head back and gulps the beer down with large swallows, throat bobbing in beat to the music. He can hear Simon’s breath catch beside him.
“Grace! Grace! Grace!l” the crowd chants endlessly. He’s engulfed by the blinding flash of phones filming his degenerate act of beer chugging and the confidence from people shouting his name like he’s accomplished a huge feat for humanity.
It’s ridiculous, honestly. He was just wrapping his hard-bound thesis in a protective plastic wrap and shaking hands with one of the most well-known research panelists a few hours ago, and now he’s only a few drinks away from taking his shirt off and flinging it into one of those unintelligible faces among the swarms of students screaming his existence.
Holy crap, it feels good to be the center of attention.
Ryland clenches his eyes shut as he swallows the alcohol hard and licks the last drop of beer off the upside down mug in his sweaty hand. He doesn’t care that everything around him is multiplying and blurring into large dots of bright lights and nothing.
The alcohol is circulating in his blood, it almost feels like nitrous oxide overriding his system and common sense of self-preservation. Fudgesticks, he should really start going to Tom’s parties more.
“Gimme a kiss Grace!” a voice shouts over the blasting beat of a remixed Miley Cyrus song, and Ryland laughs heartily, feeling the scratch and singe in the bottom of his throat. That freaking vodka shot earlier was an overkill.
Bringing a palm to his face, he makes a loud smack sound with his lips and flings the ‘kiss’ towards the direction of the requester, laughing even harder when the guy catches it with both hands and screams in victory to no one in particular.
Speaking of Tom a while ago, he hasn’t seen Colt or any of them at all. Ryland knew they were still at the party, they wouldn’t abandon him. Would they?
Nah, they knew him better than he knew himself.
The spotlights flicker and point at the bottom of the stairs where he sees two people staring at him with something suffocating and exciting. It’s Tom and Simon, one staring in awe and the other just staring.
Oh yes! He was just thinking about those two! He needs to ask where Colt is, bring him onto the table so they can pour shots into each other’s mouths. Frick! That’s a brilliant idea!
Before he can even lift a loose hand to wave at them, he feels a hand on his leg.
“Woah!” He exclaims as hands push him backwards, almost expecting to hit the sticky floor immediately, but more hands catch him and throw him into the air. Slim and wide palms touch him all together in sync as he’s lifted up and brought back down, his own giddy laugh almost mute to his ears by the loud thundering noises around him.
Ryland doesn’t even realize he’s being carried away from the main room and towards the kitchen until he feels the need to lurch over a toilet. He quickly grabs the wrist of a hand that’s curled around his waist.
“Down please!”
Once he’s back on his two feet, he makes a run for the toilet at the back of the building, hands clamped over his sweaty mouth and chin, leaving behind the unified chants of his name. There’s saliva pooling at the back of his mouth and the threat of his pre-game dinner coming back up dawns over him in realization.
The toilet door slams open with a deterring bang which scares the kid nursing a Smirnoff by the corner. Ryland can only throw a quick lopsided smile before kicking and shutting the door behind him. He stares at the white ceramic and launches forward, throwing up sour, bitter, and regret altogether.
“Shit, we lost him,” Tom announces to Simon behind him, seeing drunk Ryland get carried away by equally drunk and enthusiastic teenagers. Simon eyes a couple of girls and boys staring in the direction of Ryland with starry and hopeless eyes. He may not be interested in the way others think, but damn, he knew that expression too well.
“Guess we’re not the only ones who like touching Ryland.”
“Shut up before I break your jaw,” Simon glares at Tom. He can feel the irritation building up again.
“Jesus— look I know we don’t like each other, and you likely stand no chance against me in winning Ryland,” the entitled dipshit states the words like it’s obvious, and Simon wants to punch his teeth in, “but we gotta work like a team, yeah? I’ll take the east side and you take the west, it’ll be faster—”
Simon tears away from Tom before the other can finish talking, each syllable grating his eardrums and thinning his patience.
“Whatever, you hollow know-it-all,” he mutters angrily and wrenches a door in the foyer open. Full of shit Tom and the blindingly irritating wealth worn right on his sleeve. All sales talk and no sales at all. Fuck he wants to throw a car radiator at the guy to wake him from his delusional reverie of main character syndrome and unattractive ego.
He realizes he accidentally broke the lock to the door. He also realizes he doesn’t give a fuck because Tom has the resources to buy a new one, and even a new frat house.
A guy in a Redbull jersey offers him a turn at the beer pong table as Simon passes through the cramped hallway, grunting in refusal and taking a sharp turn towards the darker annex of the compound. There, weird things are happening.
While there are bedrooms upstairs, Simon doubts it’s enough for the hundreds of horny kids at this party. A couple of them are actually shoving tongues in and shirts aside along the dark entanglement of the long hallway. The lights can't reach here, and Simon has to resort to stepping around dark figures gingerly in torrid hopes of not touching a sweaty body that isn’t Ryland’s.
After navigating the hallway of pubescent boys and giggling girls, Simon finally arrives at the kitchen through a different entryway. He tries to spot Ryland among the broken lines of people getting refills of ice and gin at the counter but huffs in resignation when no one with a scarred nosebridge appears.
Simon didn’t even want to go to this party. Or any party at all. He’s just some boring shit holed up in his engineering basement where Ryland occasionally visits to ask about mechanical parts or drop off notes he never asks for but is somehow given anyway. He seriously never considered parties to be fun. They’re just unhinged gatherings of nutjobs sharing one brain cell that wants to get drunk.
But Ryland had finished that thesis he spent so long working on, and begged him to come along with repeated promises of some tropical flower seeds he’s been wanting for a long time but never could get access to. With puppy eyes.
And he rarely ever asks for favors, the martyr that he chooses to be, the angel that he is by default. Simon wouldn’t even have his own engineering laboratory if not for Ryland’s senior friend, Stratt, who pulled some strings in exchange for some minimal favors. He also doesn’t like Stratt for personal reasons. He doesn’t like anyone at all, especially that asshole majoring in theatre.
So even if he knew Tom was coming along, he still would’ve gone for Ryland’s sake. And look where that’s got him. Searching for the molecular enthusiast amongst the rest of surrounding drunkards.
He spots a lonely kid with a half-empty Smirnoff in one hand leaning against a dresser and walks up to him, broad frame and set expression scaring off nearby students. “You,” he says.
“Me?” The kid’s eyes widen and lips stretch into a thin line.
Simon has to stop himself from dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. You see a blonde guy wearing a stupid pun shirt pass by?”
Smirnoff kid points at the door right beside them. There’s light spilling from the foot of the door, stark against the dark carpet of the kitchen’s corner.
“Thanks.”
He tries the doorknob, unsurprised to find that it’s locked.
“Ryland?” He knocks. A voice groans incoherently from inside. “It’s Simon. Open the door.”
“Nghnnkkschh.” The lock clicks, and Simon wordlessly slips in before closing the door. Cheap disinfectant and misery instantly fills his nostrils.
There, kneeling on the grimy tiles and dark grout with his elbows propped on the edge of the toilet, is golden child Ryland Grace in all his regret and drunken glory. His broad shoulders are weighed down by second-thoughts and agony, lean frame not looking so lean under the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom. His chest expands shakily with the effort of not retching into the toilet bowl, shallow breaths overcoming him.
Dirty blonde strands of hair stick to his forehead and nape in clusters and the bags under his eyes have gone darker. In short; Ryland is a mess.
“Grace.” Simon’s voice is like a gunshot in the crammed space, ricocheting off the walls with intensity that makes Ryland’s head spin.
“Si–hjck–mon!” Ryland greets gleefully through a hiccup. He tries to point at his expelled waste in the toilet, almost shoves his hand in. “I think I threw up.”
His body jerks forward again, a sense of nausea taking over him and his tight grip around the rim of the ceramic. “I’m gonna throw up. System–hjck–failure, Simon, shoot—”
Ryland lunges into the wide opening and gurgles out the last of his dinner through teary eyes and a burning stomach. Simon says nothing but takes a step forward, filling the room with his sheer size and thick frame.
The irritation he initially felt the moment he stepped into the building is replaced by a sense of pity and grounding steadiness for the man kneeling by the toilet. The moment Ryland lets out another gag, Simon drops to one knee and places his large, firm hand on a shaky shoulder, joining Ryland man on the floor.
Simon rubs Ryland’s back through the bouts of retching and gagging, squeezing his nape along the way and pushing blond hair from his sweaty forehead, movements calculated, protective, and unfaltering. At some point, Ryland grabs Simon by the lapel of his leather jacket and sobs through another round of heaving.
“It’s okay,” his gravelly voice echoes soundly, “I’ve got you.”
Ryland continues to grip both Simon and the toilet as he vomits and spits remnants of his stomach’s contents. Simon in return remains steadfast against the blond’s side, chest and shoulders squared up for the other to lean onto as a support. After a few minutes of more bodily sounds, the heaving finally dies down, and Ryland can finally lean back on his heels. He must be dehydrated.
Just as the engineering major is about to fill a toothbrush cup with tap water, the door bursts open dramatically and Tom comes waltzing in like some celebrity on the red carpet, holding a pair of glasses, a bottle of Voss water, and a black leather belt wrapped around his fist. Completely oblivious to the biohazard sitting by the toilet.
“Thank God for Find My, otherwise I wouldn’t have guessed you’d both be in the utility bathroom. Also, who the hell is the Marcus kid? I had to threaten his student records to get these back, some fucking freak—” he stops in his tracks and the aristocratic air he brought in with him immediately drops along with his superficial smile.
The sight of Ryland’s clammy and pale skin is enough for Tom to toss the items into the sink and to slide into Ryland’s other side, practically getting cozy with the grime on the wall behind him. His hands gently clasp Ryland’s face, thumbs rubbing away tears that have gathered at the corners of blue eyes.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice uncharacteristically tender and devoid of his boastful facade. The pads of his fingers rub gently against tear-streaked skin. “You got it all out of your system? You doing better now?”
Truth be told, Simon is baffled at how soft Tom has gone within a matter of seconds. He didn’t even know the egotistic man was even capable of being genuine towards anyone.
“Tom… I threw up the beer. And— and all your expensive vodka,” Ryland exclaims, pointedly not looking at the mess he made.
Tom laughs, adoringly, not condescendingly. “Babe, you could swallow my most prized chardonnay like it was some shitty Budweiser and I still wouldn’t care.”
Ryland wipes the back of his wrist against his mouth, all grace thrown out the tiny bathroom window.
“But Colt and Si love Budweiser…”
“Then I’ll buy all the beer in the world for them. Here,” Tom picks up the discarded glasses from the sink and fits them on Ryland’s face, blue eyes blinking rapidly as they adjust to the new aids. “This way you can see our handsome faces better. Terminator, help me get him up.”
Our handsome faces?
Each of them hook a forearm under Ryland’s armpits and slowly lift him from the fetal position he resigned himself to earlier.
Simon glances at the items in the sink. “His belt—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Hold him still.”
He rolls his eyes, moving the blonde’s arm over both of his shoulders and taking the remaining weight of Ryland as Tom grabs the unworn leather belt and loops it through Ryland’s sagging jeans, holding eye contact with Simon altogether. The man in their arms is too gone to notice the swelling but somehow not threatening tension around them. He giggles at the feeling of Tom’s fingers on his hips.
Then Tom picks up the bottle of water— of course it’s fucking Voss, the prick he is— and Simon wordlessly tips Ryland’s head back just enough for the bottle’s rim to perch on loose lips. Ryland drinks the water gratefully, humming while his inebriated warm hands touch both their shoulders as thanks.
Tom’s hand on the bottle and Ryland’s chin, Simon’s arm wrapped around Ryland’s side, and Ryland’s both hands resting on their shoulders, almost forms a domestic scene. The larger of them three forms a thought that’s treading an unspoken boundary.
But then Tom takes a step back from their tight circle and clears his throat like he needs something else to fill the air.
“We’re taking my car, it’s parked at the entrance,” he says and waves a shiny key fob by his head, eyes cast down. Weird. “We’ll pick your truck up tomorrow.”
Simon grunts whether in acknowledgment or protest, Tom will never know. He doesn’t think about it too hard and pulls the door open to expose the raging party still going strong. The Smirnoff kid by the corner is gone and replaced by a giggling couple.
Ryland must’ve gone to dreamland because his weight gets heavier and he doesn’t even look up to excitedly greet the group that starts chanting his name again. Simon just adjusts his grip and follows Tom who’s walking two steps ahead and parting the sea of students for them.
“Is Grace alright?!” a guy shouts from halfway up the stairs—Simon recognizes him as the one who caught Ryland’s flying kiss.
“He loved it! Says he’ll be back for the next one!” Tom shouts back before Simon can pull back his lips into a snarl, perfect white teeth flashing a model’s perfect grin.
They maneuver through the tight crowd and bright neon strobes of lights, occasionally bumping into people who’ve been waiting to see Ryland again. It takes every ounce of Simon’s self-control not to snap at them for invading their personal space with their touchy tendencies.
Jesus Christ, he wants to blow this place to pieces. Fuck whatever kappa alpha rho this shit is named after.
Simon breathes a sigh of relief once they step out onto the porch, the cool night air caressing their sweat-covered skin. Ryland remains quiet between them, save for a singular hysterical laugh that he puffs out, head falling around with a stupid smile plastered on his face.
A sports car’s headlights flashes beside them.
“You’ll get a DUI if you drive.”
“It’s not like we can fit in your two-seater junk. Can you even drive my car?”
Simon frowns, his boots crunching heavily on the gravel. “I engineer similar if not more complicated machines, Ryder. I can handle it better than you.”
Tom rolls his eyes, but this time there’s no heat. He hits the key fob again and the sleek sports car clicks open, bright headlights casting shadows across the crowded front yard where red solo cups are tossed everywhere. “I’m driving. So get in the back and leave Ry in the front, take it or leave it.”
Taking in the passenger seat, it becomes obvious that the steep angle wouldn’t be ideal for a bucket of water that Ryland’s become. It’s either he’ll end up face-first on the dashboard, or a ragdoll in the footwell. Ryland is practically slime as of the moment, head lolling against Simon’s chest and eyes dazed behind cloudy glasses.
“He won’t sit upright in your bucket seat,” Simon grumbles, adjusting his grip on Ryland’s waist as he looks at the cockpit barely enough for a man his size. “A seatbelt’s useless.”
Tom sighs and steps into Simon’s space. His harsh scent of cologne mixes in with the fresh breeze of campus air and the 5-in-1 shampoos that Ryland gifted them on their birthdays, but surprisingly it doesn’t make the engineer scrunch his nose. He reaches past them both, rings catching the soft moonlight, and folds the passenger seat forward.
“Backseat,” Tom says firmly, not leaving any space for argument. “Hold him up so he doesn’t choke if his stomach decides to fold itself.”
Simon climbs into the cramped back row without any hesitation, slowly pulling Ryland along with him. The space is shittingly tight, and it forces Simon’s broad shoulders to hunch up against the leather seats in order to accommodate them both. This model was designed to have larger leeway and more space for drunken shenanigans like these, but it still isn’t enough for the Optimus Prime that Simon is.
Apparently being the shortest of them three didn’t mean he’d be easy to fit into cramped spaces. Having wide metal poles for arms and an actual cabinet for a torso was probably a nightmare to Simon, stepping into vehicles that didn’t have the moving allowance of an empty train.
As soon as they settle as comfortably as they can, Ryland lets out a garbled hum and curls his fingers into the collar of Simon’s jacket. He slots his face right into the curve of Simon’s neck as well, hot, alcohol-laced breath tickling the long hairs there.
Tom watches them from the door, blue eyes full of contemplation and something else unreadable in the shadows, almost sort of odd and unusual for the predictable guy. He reaches out, thumb catching Ryland’s stubbled chin one more time. “Comfortable, babe?”
The biochemistry major mutters a ‘mmrghh’ and they both take it as a yes. Tom swings the door shut and walks towards the driver side. The car’s engine roars to life with a purr powerful enough to drown out the distant youthful shouts and bass music of the compound. Shifting into reverse, he pulls out of the driveway full of other cars with the practiced ease of someone who’s spent his whole life driving Maseratis.
What's left is the comforting hum of the engine and Ryland’s soft, steady breaths.
The drive through the campus roads is quiet, save for Ryland’s low snores and the metronomic tapping of Tom’s fingers against the leather steering wheel.
He’s focused on the road ahead but constantly flicks his gaze towards the rearview mirror where he can see Simon staring out the window in deep thought and Ryland dead to the world on his shoulder. It’s not often there’s a moment where it’s just him and Simon. Well, he knows that Ryland is present, just mentally not.
He wonders what the guy is thinking about, thick eyebrows drawn tight together over sharp dark eyes. He wants to ask. Figure out equal ground with him… understand him?
Deft fingers maneuver a sharp turn that directs them away from university grounds and onto the highway that leads towards the off-campus housings. Ryland buries his face deeper into Simon’s clavicle, face almost conveying his joy in being cuddled. And Simon may look like he’s floating somewhere else, but his arm says otherwise, hand splayed across a warm sternum and keeping the nerd steady against his chest as the turn’s momentum pulls them the opposite way.
When they pull into the driveway of a blue house with faded white shutters and thriving wildflowers on the lawn, the dashboard clock reads three-twelve AM. The engine shuts off, the vibrating hum leaving them like the warmth of a blanket on a rainy Monday morning. The porch light is off and Colt’s beat-up truck is nowhere to be seen which states the obvious; no one’s home. Just them.
Tom cuts the headlights, the sudden darkness consuming the car. He sits for a moment, stalling just before they have to leave the car, and turns around to face the backseat, black eyes already staring back at him. Ryland is still passed out, mouth slightly ajar and cheap wired glasses askew on his nose.
“We’re here, mech. You might wanna pass him to me.” he whispers.
Simon nods, then shakes his head, grunting as he collects Ryland in his arms and shuffles out the vertically challenging car. Tom catches the door before it slams closed. Even if the neighborhood was quiet as an unleased pension house, he’d hate to hear someone file a complaint against Ryland.
They walk in sync towards the front door. Tom takes the set of keys that Simon offers to him, makes a mental note to ask about that later, and creaks it open. The smell of trapped cologne that Ryland and Colt left in their wake of preparing for their night out greets them along with the scent of artificial lavender freshener. Almost typical for the twins, Tom thinks. The dresser lamp flicks on.
There’s a pack of red gatorade sitting on the table and large bags of whole wheat bread, some stuff Colt probably bought ahead for the morning after. If there are any painkillers, Simon doesn’t see any. He just hopes Ryland doesn’t wake up with a splitting headache.
The house is silent, only the sounds of muffled footsteps on lacquered wood and movement of clothing filling the adjoined living room and kitchen. Tom points at a door, which he hopes is Ryland’s room, down the narrow hallway, and moves the floor lamp out of the way where tangled feet are supposed to stumble through.
Simon slowly coaxes the blonde in his arms through the dim amber light— wants to carry him over his shoulder and get this over with. Lies to himself that he just wants to finish things faster and totally not because he wants to feel the planes of Ryland against his chest once more. He stares at the back of Tom’s head held high and back confidently straight. His ring-adorned fingers twist the doorknob open.
“Bingo,” he hears Tom say and watches him push the door open wider.
There’s a desk with journals and syllabuses, a bookshelf with more journals and syllabuses, a nightstand with an old-fashioned lamp and if incorrect a microscope under a dust cover, an array of sticky notes with unintelligible scribbling on the walls, and a well-made bed. The bed being the only thing that seems to be unused forms a mutual feeling of chagrin in them.
Tom peels back the blankets and gestures at the empty space at the middle of the mattress, looking at Simon with a glint he doesn’t want to examine too closely. The engineering major puts a knee on the edge as he sets Ryland on the bed, spring creaking in protest of the weight.
Ryland wakes up when Simon’s warmth leaves him. “Huh? Simon? Whe-ah-you? Tom? Colt?” he rambles, eyes blinking blindly into the blackness of his room.
“Simon and Tom present, Colt absent,” Tom says while tossing his things onto the desk and sinks into the mattress opposite to Simon. “He’s at Jody’s.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Do you need anything?”
Ryland looks at Tom’s piercing bright gaze and up at the brooding silhouette of Simon’s impossibly wide frame. Nausea creeps up on him and he decides to clench his eyes shut in hopes of pushing the feeling away.
“I’m disoriented.”
Simon scoffs fondly as Tom says, “No shit.”
Why the heck was his chest beating so fast? Didn’t he already expel all the toxins earlier?
“You looked good back there, Ry,” the actor whispers, long fingers reaching out to slip the foggy lens off Ryland’s nose and setting them on the nearby nightstand. Hazy blue eyes stare into his own. “The audience loved your performance.”
“Take me to your next one, Tommy,” the biochemist rasps with a smile and tucks his hands under the pillow. “I like being taken care of by you guys.”
Tom gapes at the admission, words so easily rolled out of the older one’s mouth like it wasn’t enough to set an idle brain on fire. Simon’s reaction is similar. He’s staring at now-asleep Ryland, heart thumping against his ribcage. The blonde has fallen fast asleep, chest rising with the gentle inhale of his nostrils and lips upturned in a grin, perhaps dreaming of a pristine laboratory with wide eager eyes observing his experiments.
Neither of them move to leave the room.
Simon stays seated on the edge with his back pushed up against the headboard and a large calloused hand resting on Ryland’s chest where his heart steadily beats. Across from him, Tom leans his weight on his elbow, chin digging into his palm and gaze alternating between Ryland’s peaceful face and Simon’s locked jaw.
Despite having a window cracked open for some cold evening breeze, the air is thick with unsaid want and tense, heavy silence. Tom can’t help but think that there’s more to this than their prideful consciousnesses are letting on, that he’s just one step away from understanding his and Simon’s motives this evening.
But he doesn't want to think too hard, thinking he may never get the chance of being this close to the apple of the Garden of Eden again. He knows he’ll succeed in bringing Ryland to another party, but still.
He’s normally a guy that focuses on future projects and goals, but now, he chooses to enjoy the present and take in the soft shadows cast across the pale skin of Ryland’s face. After all, this angel is the only reason his unbearable personality had managed to transform into something tolerable for his uncultured classmates.
Simon silently huffs at the two blue-eyed men in front of him— a spitting image of some renaissance painting he saw online. His thumb continues to stroke Ryland’s brow line, thoughts of tonight’s events filling his mind, altering the way he sees the nature of himself and Tom.
A small bright light interrupts his train of notions.
Tom punches in Jody’s digits with deft and precise fingers. “Pretty nerd secured @ Grace residence.”
Tossing the phone onto the nightstand, he momentarily lifts his torso before curling his arm and resting on it as a makeshift pillow, shoes falling onto the floor with a loud thu-thunk. He glances at Simon one last time, and falls asleep to the close-up image of Ryland’s relaxed face.
Simon curls up behind Grace, doing his best not to touch him with the limited space that a double bed can provide for three grown men.
Crickets chirp distantly outside the window.