Chapter Text
Anthony has lost Coy—his Coy.
Jesus, he's drunk. Not his.
Rationally, Anthony knows that Coy doesn't belong to him, that Coy is his own person and not a thing someone can just own. Coy is perfectly capable of protecting himself, really, but Anthony feels as an unusual need to look after the other boy. He can't tell if it's the alcohol in his system, or if the teenagers here are truly a threat, but he needs to shelter Coy. Shield him in an environment that's foreign, a house party that Anthony dragged him to with the promise that I'll stick by your side the entire time.
And now Anthony has lost Coy.
God, he's such a bad friend.
Anthony throws his empty solo cup in a trash can—or, more accurately, he precariously places it on top of the absolute mountain of bottles and cups that is already threatening to fall. He succeeds, as his cup doesn't cause the pile to topple over, so he deems the trash can a problem for the next unfortunate soul that decides to hobble over to the kitchen.
He pushes through the throng of perspiring teenagers, apologizing to everyone he bumps into. He winces at the incoherent shrieks and the bass that rattles the entire house. Squinting, Anthony looks over the blur of people in the living room, but he fails to spot the familiar head of hair in the multi-colored sea. People tap on his shoulder and tug on his sleeve to grab his attention. He brushes past them.
Anthony scopes out the bathrooms, the bedrooms, the backyard—but still, Coy is nowhere to be found.
With a sigh, he stumbles onto the lawn, tip-toeing over the cups littered all over the yellowing grass. There are people out here that he recognizes from the swim team. They're huddled in groups, whooping and clapping over God-knows-what. Anthony once would have joined in the chaos without hesitation, but now, he just wonders about the snarky comments Coy would have made. Maybe something about their bloodshot eyes or stage whispering.
Coy. Now that Anthony has searched everywhere on the first floor, he'll have to drag himself up the staircase and check the rooms upstairs, and it shouldn't sound as much of a chore as it does because he cares for Coy, so of course he wants to turn over every piece of furniture in this God-forsaken house to find the other boy—
"Anthony? Anthony!"
At the sound of his name, Anthony whips his head around, but no one is looking at him—not on the ground level, anyways. His eyes flicker upwards and immediately spots the figure he's been searching for.
Coy sits on the rooftop with his knees tucked under his chin and a window pressed against his back. A nondescript bottle of booze sits next to him, acting like an unorthodox friend. Rose flushes his cheeks, his pupils swallow evergreen irises, and his hair makes the impression that he's been standing in high-speed winds. He looks like the stereotypical drunk. Anthony would find it endearing if he wasn't worried sick.
"Coy," Anthony breathes. He breathes like it's his first breath in a long time. With the exhale, something loosens in his chest, some foreign object he didn't know was lodged among his intestines. The emotion that cascades over him feels a lot like relief.
"You're so small down there!" Coy waves, eager and sloppy.
"Like an ant?" Anthony grins.
"That was a bad joke," Coy sighs. He shakes his head too fast, causing him to dig his fingers in his temples to dull the nausea. "You should be ashamed."
Ignoring Coy, Anthony tries to calculate the distance between the rooftop and the ground. He gives up, deeming it a generally bad distance to fall down, especially when one has alcohol pumping through his system.
"I'm gonna come up to you," Anthony calls. "Just—just don't go anywhere."
If Coy responds, Anthony doesn't hear because with his parting word, he's sprinting towards the staircase. In actuality, he shuffles awkwardly past everyone with mumbled apologies spilling from his mouth, but it fails to convey the same sense of urgency as sprinting, and in his heart, he's rushing to reach Coy.
After nearly tripping over the staircase landing, he reaches the second floor. Anthony inspects the doors that line either side of the carpeted hallway by fiddling with the doorknobs and pressing his ear to the doors for any trace of noise.
The door to the second-to-last room is cracked ajar, and he carefully pushes it open. He's met with quiet, a form of escape that only proceeds the worst kind of chaos. It's hardly tranquil, considering the music blaring downstairs, but it's something. Could even be described as nice.
Anthony enters the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The light isn't turned on, but thanks to the moonlight, he can make out the general figure pressed against the window pane.
Although Coy is completely motionless, Anthony feels compelled to simply stand in place, his limbs equally as frozen. There's something about Coy—something Anthony has always felt before he properly noticed it. For the longest time, he tried to put a name to the sensation, the way his chest tightened and his bones locked up and his thoughts narrowed down to Coy, Coy, Coy.
For the longest time, he tried to avoid the truth. Spent his nights lying awake, tossing the bright pink foam football Will bought him as a gag gift. Tried to wrack his brain for any rational reason that had nothing to do with romance.
But despite his best efforts, Anthony knows. So, why can't he let himself lose himself in this singular emotion? Why can't he have one of the only things he's ever truly wanted and chose for himself?
Shit, how much did I drink?
Impulsively, Anthony flicks the light on, welcoming a yellowish hue as it floods the bedroom. He hopes that it'll offer some clarity and correct his course. That it'll erase everything he just admitted to himself, that he'll be able to fool his drunken mind into steering clear of his pathetic emotions.
But all the light does is startle Coy and prompt him to turn around. Once he meets Anthony's eyes, his eyes noticeably brighten, and this lopsided grin reappears on his face, tugging at his lips rapidly and uncontrollably. He taps on the window and motions for Anthony to come forward.
All the light does is remind Anthony how royally fucked he is. He flips the light back off.
Anthony crosses the length of the room and pushes the window open. He pokes Coy's side once, twice.
"Stop, stop," Coy protests, but he's giggling. He swats Anthony's hand away, and Anthony relents with ease.
"C'mon, move over," Anthony says.
Coy listens, albeit with a petulant huff, and shuffles to the side to let Anthony through the window. Anthony swings his leg over the window frame and climbs onto the roof without much struggle, settling onto the rooftop shingles. The cold air nips at his skin. It's only now he regrets giving his jacket to Hanbon, but it's no matter—wait.
"Where's Hanbon?" Anthony wonders aloud. "Or Will—where's anybody we know?
"You're asking that now?" Coy snorts. "I lost Will the second we arrived, but I was with Hanbon, like, a while ago. I think Gal dragged her away."
"Gal?"
"Waters?"
"Oh. That one."
"How many Gals do you know?"
"Just the one, you're right," Anthony laughs. Coy laughs with him, softer and breathier but doubtlessly fond.
After a brief silence, Coy says, "Hanbon's the one who dragged me up here. I wasn't doing too well down there."
Anthony hums. "That makes sense."
"What do you mean by that?" Coy softly laughs. "Makes sense that she's the one to take me to somewhere probably dangerous?"
Coy looks at Anthony with genuine curiosity painting his features. The emerald in his eyes soften at the edges, and a loopy smile graces his face. Anthony's fingers twitch at his sides, itching to trace the lines of that gentle expression. He clenches his hand into a fist, willing himself to look away and the feeling to dissipate with his childish antics. He leans forward and peers down at the backyard for any distractions that decide to stumble onto the grass.
"No, it'd be the other way around. She wouldn't have taken you up here if she knew it wasn't safe." Anthony's mouth tweaks into a small smile. "I meant that it makes sense that she noticed that you needed to leave."
"She always knows," Coy says ominously.
Anthony absently bobs his head up and down.
"I'm so lucky to have Bon as my savior," Coy wistfully sighs, clapping his hands together. "After you, y'know, abandoned me."
Anthony winces. He instinctively presses his fingers to the back of his neck. "Yeah, I deserve that. I'm sorry, for the record. I should've stayed with you. Probably should've said no to more drinks."
"How drunk are you?" At his own question, Coy dissolves into a giggle fit, and Anthony just stares at him like he couldn't fathom doing anything else. Stares at the way Coy curls over himself, the way his body vibrates with an unmistakable joy.
"Evidently not as a drunk as you," Anthony muses.
"Hey." Coy narrows his eyes, but without much argument, his hardened features quickly melt away. He scrunches his face together, a faraway look in his eyes as he ruminates. In the end, he dramatically sighs. "Shit, I am drunk. Like I'm going in the school's shitty PSA video as a prime example of intoxication, that's the level of drunk. I do not want to be associated with that shitty acting."
"You actually watched that?" Anthony scoffs when he willingly watched the video himself, all the way at the beginning of the year. He thought the acting was decent, good enough for his grandmother to believe the scenarios were real, but then again, he wasn't the one who dedicated his heart and soul to their school's theater program. So, he clicks his tongue. "Most people here are, like, so much drunker than you, if that makes you feel better."
Coy sucks in a breath, considering. "Not really. But thanks for trying. It's reassuring that you actually care. Maybe our friendship actually means something to you."
Anthony snorts. I always care. It means everything. "'Course."
Coy observes the partygoers in sight, and he latches onto the swim team, the very same group that Anthony saw before Coy called his name. Except now, they sit on plastic chairs that they must have summoned in the past ten minutes because Anthony recalls them standing. When Clifford Dyer tentatively swings his arm on the back of Irene Sandoval's chair, Coy lets out a loud groan.
Called it.
"What's wrong?" Anthony prompts, trying to hold back a self-satisfied grin.
"Do you see them over there?" Coy points over at the swim team, to which Anthony hums in acknowledgement. "Why is that guy trying to be coy? No pun intended. But they're both clearly under some sort of influence, and she has bleached eyebrows, so she obviously doesn't have standards. She'll happily stick her tongue down his throat, only if he were to do something about it."
"Jesus, Coy," Anthony barks out a laugh.
Coy cringes. "Yeah, that wasn't funny. Even I'm not desperate enough to do that. I should be nicer to women."
"Cheers to the bare minimum." Anthony's hand forms a claw to mime a toast. With a small snort, Coy picks up his bottle to tap against Anthony's knuckles. "Ding."
"Ew." Coy's face pulls into one of mock disgust before he takes a swig of alcohol. For reasons unbeknownst to himself, Anthony lingers on the sight, on how Coy tips his head back and the way his eyes flutter shut. When Coy catches Anthony looking, he offers his bottle. "What? You want some?"
Anthony profusely shakes his head. "No, I'm—I'm good."
"Awh, baby boy can't handle his liquor," Coy teases. And if a hue that's vaguely adjacent to crimson creeps up Anthony's neck and dusts the tips of his ears, it's the alcohol's fault. Or the wind's fault. Or hell, even Clifford Dyer's fault.
"Do you, uh—" Anthony clears his throat, cocking his head to the side. Distraction, distraction. "When do you plan to leave?"
"Fuck, what time is it?" Coy fishes his phone out of his pocket, but when he taps on the screen, it refuses to react. He groans. "My phone died."
Anthony grabs his phone, squinting when it lights up. "One twenty-two."
"Oh God, I should've left an hour ago." Coy begins to stand up when his whole body freezes, eyes widening. He caves in on himself, and he threads his fingers through the roots of his hair, tugging. "Oh shit, oh fuck, oh fuck."
"What?" Panic swells in Anthony's gut. He's never seen Coy this freaked out before. "What the fuck is going on?"
"I'm so dead," Coy stage-whispers. He swallows audibly.
"What? What do you mean?"
"My parents are gonna know," Coy attempts to elaborate. When Anthony cluelessly shakes his head, Coy throws his hands in the air. "I smell rancid, Anthony. Rancid. My breath probably smells like I sucked a raccoon off."
"What the fuck—okay." Anthony raises his hands, as if he's trying not to spook a skittish animal. "Coy, slow down."
"You're right, that's animal abuse." Coy huffs out a breath.
"That's—" Anthony lets out a weak, nervous laugh. "Are they still awake? Your parents?"
"No, but I can't, like, sneak in," Coy says. Well, there goes Anthony's bright suggestion. "All of the doors and windows are armed. They'll be alerted if the window opens, and we have security cameras, like, everywhere."
"You didn't think of a backup plan before you left the house?" Anthony asks, exasperated.
"I thought I was going to be responsible and not drink tonight," Coy nearly whines. "I am very impressionable."
Anthony flounders, unsure of how to handle the situation before him, unsure if he should even try to help. He sighs because this shouldn't even be a debate he's having with himself. Coy is ultimately his friend, someone he deeply cares for, a presence he instinctively gravitates towards. There's only one choice—well, there's many solutions, but if Anthony convinces himself that there's only one, he might feel rational and level-headed for once, despite the booze in his system.
"Where did you say you were going?" Anthony questions. He hopes that his face reads as cool, calm, and collected and not I am so nervous that I am going to fuck everything up.
"What?" Coy squints.
"To your parents—what did you say?"
"I told them there was a get-together at Hanbon's house. Said that I'd get home really late," Coy informs. "My parents know Will and Hanbon, and to be fair, they are here, so…" He trails off, eyeing Anthony nervously.
"How much do your parents trust you?" Anthony asks. He's only partly serious.
Coy considers this question for a beat, then two. "Way more than they should?"
Anthony sucks in an unsteady breath. "Then just tell them that you're spending the night at her house."
"The last time I went over to Bon's house, I accidentally grazed her shoulder, and her parents demanded to know if we were dating. It went on for hours." Coy shivers uncomfortably at the memory, and there's this miserable look in his eyes. If this were any other time, Anthony would’ve bursted into hysterics. Right now, however, he remains solemn.
"No, not actually her house." Anthony hesitates. This is a mistake. "You can come to mine."