Archive of Our Own

Esteban was standing at his locker, trying to convince himself that biology wasn't a personal attack on his inability to remember transcription. So far, he wasn't succeeding.

The frog on the front of his textbook seemed particularly smug today. Its stupid little amphibian face stared back at him from the cover. Judgmental. Mocking. Entirely too confident for something that had probably spent most of its life sitting in a pond.

Esteban narrowed his eyes. With a sigh, he shoved his French textbook into his locker and pulled out his biology one. Immediately, his mood worsened.

Biology was the worst. It just felt like someone had looked at every living thing on earth and decided it needed far more complicated names. Every lesson seemed to introduce seventeen new words. None of which sounded remotely real.

The only redeeming factor was Flavy.

Flavy understood biology. Not in the normal student way. In the terrifying way. The way people understood breathing. Or walking. Or basic mathematics. Information simply appeared inside her brain and stayed there forever.

Esteban was reasonably certain she could identify every organ in the human body without blinking. Possibly in alphabetical order. Frankly, she was carrying his grade. Hard.

Without her letting him copy her test answers, there was a very real possibility he would currently be failing. The thought made him sigh again.

Around him, the corridor buzzed with noise. Lockers opening. Students talking. Footsteps echoing across the floor. The familiar chaos between classes.

Esteban adjusted the books in his arms.

Then suddenly arms wrapped around his waist. Firm. Immediate. Familiar. A body pressed against his back. Warm even through the layers of clothing.

Esteban smiled before he even turned around. He didn't need to. There was only one person who treated personal space as a vague suggestion.

Pierre dropped his chin onto Esteban's shoulder. "Hey." His voice rumbled directly beside Esteban's ear. Low. Sleepy. Like he'd only partially woken up this morning. Thinking about it, Pierre had probably skipped the first lesson.

The grip around Esteban's middle tightened slightly. Not enough to trap him. Just enough to keep him there. Possessive. Affectionate. Very Pierre.

A laugh threatened to escape. Instead Esteban relaxed backwards into him. Immediately. Without thinking. The movement felt automatic now. Natural. Like finding the comfortable position in a chair you'd sat in a thousand times before.

"Hey, Pierre."

Pierre hummed. The sound vibrated through Esteban's shoulder. For a moment neither of them spoke. The corridor continued moving around them. Students walking past. Conversations overlapping. Someone laughing loudly further down the hall. None of it seemed particularly important.

Pierre's cheek rested briefly against the side of Esteban's head. Comfortable. Lazy. Like he had absolutely no intention of moving - which, honestly, was probably true.

Esteban glanced down at the arms around his waist. "You know people have places to be."

"Mhm."

"That includes you."

"Mhm."

"You have class, and so do I."

"Mhm." Pierre made absolutely no effort to move. Instead Pierre nuzzled closer.

Eventually Pierre spoke. "Charles is throwing a party this weekend."

Esteban raised an eyebrow. That wasn't where he'd expected this conversation to go. "A party?"

"Mhm." Pierre shifted slightly. His chin remaining stubbornly planted on Esteban's shoulder. "He mentioned it yesterday."

Esteban could practically hear the shrug in his voice.

"He said I can bring someone if I want." Pierre's grip tightened. Only slightly. Just enough that Esteban noticed.

"And?"

"And I want to bring you." The answer came immediately. Without hesitation. Like there had never been another option.

Pierre buried his face briefly against the side of Esteban's neck. A tiny nudge. A quiet nuzzle. The kind of affection he constantly pretended he wasn't needy enough to require.

"You should come."

Something warm settled inside Esteban's chest. Because it wasn't really about the party. Not entirely. Pierre hadn't said he could bring someone. He hadn't even said he was thinking about bringing Esteban, because as far as Pierre was concerned, if there was an invitation available, it belonged to Esteban.

The thought made it difficult not to smile. "Is that your official invitation?"

"Yes."

"Very formal."

"I know."

"Very professional."

Pierre nodded seriously. “I know.”

That was the first time Esteban was invited to a house party.

One second he was standing there with Pierre's arms around his waist. The next his brain had decided to remind him exactly what he had just been invited to. A house party. An actual house party. The kind people spent entire weeks talking about. The kind that somehow generated enough drama to fuel lunch conversations for months afterward. The kind Esteban had only ever heard about.

Never attended.

Never been invited to.

Never particularly expected to attend.

Because house parties required a social life. And while Esteban technically had friends, there was a very big difference between having friends and being the sort of person who got invited to parties.

Pierre was the sort of person who got invited to parties. Pierre collected invitations like they were loyalty cards. Pierre knew everyone. Or at least it felt that way sometimes.

Meanwhile Esteban still got nervous ordering food over the phone.

The comparison felt unfair and unfortunately very accurate.

His stomach twisted slightly. Because somehow the party itself wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was the people. Pierre's people.

Obviously Esteban knew some of them. Charles. Max. A handful of others.

He saw them around school constantly. Shared hallways. Shared quick waves whenever Pierre was with them across the cafeteria. The occasional awkward interaction whenever Pierre decided personal space and social boundaries were optional. But knowing who someone was wasn't the same as actually knowing them.

Esteban couldn't remember ever having a proper conversation with Charles. Or Max. Or honestly most of Pierre's friends.

What if they didn't like him? What if they thought he was weird? What if he spent the entire night awkwardly following Pierre around like a lost puppy? What if-

"So?" Pierre's voice interrupted the spiral immediately.

Esteban blinked. "What?"

Pierre was watching him. One eyebrow raised. "Do you want to come?"

And realistically? What else were you supposed to say when your popular boyfriend invited you to a house party filled with popular people?

‘No’?

‘Sorry, I'd rather spend Saturday night hiding in my bedroom watching Marvel movies’?

That sounded pathetic. Especially when Pierre was looking at him like that. Hopeful. Expectant. Like he genuinely wanted him there.

Not because he needed a date.

Not because he felt obligated.

Because he wanted Esteban there. With him.

"Yeah." The answer escaped before he could overthink it. "Sure."

Pierre's entire face brightened, like someone had switched on a light. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A grin appeared immediately. Wide. Victorious. Dangerous. The kind that usually meant Pierre had gotten exactly what he wanted. "I'll pick you up on Saturday."

Before Esteban could respond, Pierre leaned forward. A quick kiss landed against the side of his cheek. Soft. Warm. Gone almost immediately. The gesture was casual. Effortless. The sort of thing Pierre did constantly. Yet somehow it still made warmth spread across Esteban's face every single time.

Pierre pulled back. Still smiling. Still looking far too pleased with himself.

The loss of warmth when Pierre let go was immediate. Pierre stepped backwards. Walking down the hallway. Already heading toward whatever class he had next. A few steps later he glanced back. A tiny smile still lingering on his face. “‘til Saturday,” he mouthed Then he disappeared into the crowd.

Leaving Esteban standing in front of his locker. Biology textbook in hand. Heart beating slightly faster than before. The stupid frog still staring at him from the cover.

Still mocking. Still judgmental. Still entirely too confident. For once, though, Esteban barely noticed.

—

The rest of the week passed surprisingly quickly. Not that Esteban noticed much of it. Because the moment Saturday entered the equation, his brain became completely incapable of thinking about anything else.

Monday became about Saturday.

Tuesday became about Saturday.

Even biology somehow became about Saturday.

By Wednesday he had already imagined at least twelve different ways the party could go wrong.

By Thursday that number had doubled.

By Friday evening he was seriously considering faking his own death. Or maybe a minor illness. Nothing too dramatic. Just enough to avoid social interaction and stay home.

Then Pierre texted him a heart at eleven o'clock and somehow all those plans disappeared. Which was annoying. Mostly because it meant Pierre continued having entirely too much power over him.

Saturday arrived anyway. Naturally. Time never slowed down when you actually wanted it to.

By late afternoon Esteban found himself standing in the kitchen while his parents finished dinner. Trying very hard to sound casual. And failing.

"I'm sleeping at Pierre's tonight."

His mother looked up immediately. "Oh?"

"We're watching movies." Technically. Probably. At some point. Maybe.

His father nodded. "Okay."

That was it. No interrogation. No questions. No suspicion. Which honestly felt a little insulting.

Esteban had spent ten minutes preparing for this conversation. Apparently it hadn't been necessary.

A few hours later Pierre arrived. Right on time. Which immediately should have been suspicious. Pierre wasn't late often. But punctuality wasn't exactly one of his defining personality traits either.

The familiar car rolled into the driveway. Esteban immediately recognized it. Mostly because it absolutely wasn't Pierre's. It belonged to his parents.

The same car Pierre had spent months learning to drive in. The same car he'd proudly informed everyone about after passing his test. Several times. Many times. Far too many times.

Pierre still acted like receiving a driver's license was one of humanity's greatest achievements. Which, admittedly, it probably felt like when you were eighteen.

The horn sounded once. Brief. Impatient. Very Pierre.

Esteban grabbed his overnight bag and headed outside. Pierre was already leaning across the passenger seat, opening the door from the inside for Esteban. "Hi."

"Hi."

"You ready?"

"Yes."

"Good." Pierre grinned. Victorious.

Then they were pulling away from the curb. The drive itself was familiar. Comfortable. The sort of comfortable that only existed after spending enough time around someone.

Music played quietly through the speakers. The windows remained cracked open slightly. Warm summer air drifting through the car. Pierre drove with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. The other constantly finding reasons to drift toward Esteban.

A red light. A squeeze of his thigh.

A stop sign. His fingers finding Esteban's hand.

Traffic. Another squeeze.

The pattern continued the entire drive. Not enough to distract him from the road. Just enough to keep contact.

Every now and then Pierre would intertwine their fingers. Hold on for a few moments. Then reluctantly let go whenever shifting gears became necessary.

The moment the gear change finished, his hand returned. Immediately. Like it belonged there. Which, honestly, it probably did.

Esteban eventually glanced down at their hands. Then over at Pierre. "You're aware both hands are supposed to hold onto the steering wheel."

Pierre didn't even look away from the road. "Do I need to remind you which one of us passed his driving license?"

"Barely."

"Well enough to pass. And well enough to drive us."

"You nearly hit a curb earlier." Esteban laughed.

Pierre smiled immediately. The expression appearing without effort. Like making Esteban laugh remained one of his favorite hobbies. Which was ridiculous. And embarrassingly effective.

The closer they got, the more nervousness returned.

The party. The people. Pierre's friends. All waiting at the end of this drive.

Pierre noticed immediately. Of course he did. "You okay?"

The question arrived casually. Without pressure. Without making a big deal out of it.

Esteban appreciated that. "Yeah."

Pierre glanced over briefly. One look. Long enough to know he wasn't entirely convinced. Short enough to keep his eyes on the road. "Mhm."

"I'm fine."

"Sure."

"You don't believe me."

"Nope." At least he was honest.

The road curved. A few more turns. A few more houses. Then: "That's it."

Esteban looked up.

The house was huge. Not mansion huge. But definitely larger than anything Esteban had expected.

Cars already lined parts of the street. Music faintly audible even from here. Lights glowing through the windows.

His stomach immediately performed an unpleasant flip.

Pierre turned into the driveway. Completely unconcerned. Like this was any other Saturday. Any other house. Any other party.

The car rolled to a stop. Pierre switched off the engine. Then leaned back in his seat. Looking entirely too smug. "He said we can park here instead of on the street."

Esteban looked over. Pierre was grinning. "Perks of being best friends." And then actually physically winked.

Esteban stared at him. For a second. Two seconds. Then rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"You cannot say that and wink."

"I absolutely can."

"You looked ridiculous."

Pierre gasped. Offended. Deeply offended… in that very play pretend way. "That was charming."

"It was embarrassing."

Pierre pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. As though wounded. Mortally. "You hurt me."

"Good." The grin immediately returned.

For a moment neither moved. The music thumped faintly outside. People laughed somewhere near the house. The party waited.

Pierre hooked his fingers with Esteban’s.

Esteban looked down at their intertwined fingers. Then back at Pierre. Still nervous. Still intimidated. Still very aware that he was about to spend an evening surrounded by people who seemed infinitely cooler than him.

But Pierre was here. And somehow that made everything feel a little less terrifying.

Pierre squeezed his hand once. Then opened the door. The sounds of the party immediately grew louder.

Once inside, Esteban was surprised. Genuinely surprised. Because this wasn't what he'd expected. Not even close.

House parties in movies always looked like disasters. Hundreds of people crammed into one room. Music so loud the walls shook. Someone inevitably jumping off a roof. Someone else setting something on fire. The cops being called half way through. General chaos.

This wasn't that.

It was loud. Definitely. The music pulsed through the house from somewhere deeper inside. Conversations overlapped. Laughter erupted from different rooms. People moved constantly through the hallways. But it still felt… normal.

Groups of people stood talking in corners. Some sat on couches. Others crowded around kitchen counters. Nobody was hanging from a chandelier. Nobody appeared to be committing a crime. At least not yet.

The strongest thing Esteban noticed was the smell. Alcohol. Strong. Sharp. It hit him the second the front door opened, attacking his nostrils without mercy. The scent lingered throughout the house. Mixed with perfume. Food. And the general smell that appeared whenever too many people occupied the same building.

Esteban tried not to wrinkle his nose and failed.

Beside him, Pierre looked completely at home. Of course he did. Pierre could probably walk into a room full of strangers and leave with twenty new friends. The thought wasn't particularly reassuring.

Before Esteban could properly look around a name was called-

"Pierre!" The shout came from somewhere near the kitchen. A familiar voice. A second later Charles appeared. Practically materializing from the crowd. His grin widened immediately. "Finally."

Pierre laughed, immediately pulling Charles into a hug. The kind that only happened between people who had known each other forever.

"How's it going?"

"Good." Pierre stepped back. Then immediately added: "But it'd be better with something to drink."

Charles barked out a laugh. "I got you covered." The grin on his face somehow grew wider.

Then he turned around. Already heading back toward the kitchen. Pierre followed without hesitation. Only stopping long enough to reach for Esteban. His fingers slipped into Esteban's hand automatically. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn't even needed to think about it.

The simple gesture eased something inside Esteban's chest.

Pierre glanced back briefly. Making sure Esteban was following. Then squeezed his hand once. A silent reassurance.

The kitchen was crowded. Not overwhelmingly so. But enough. People leaned against counters. Sat on chairs. Talked in small groups. A few faces looked vaguely familiar. Most didn't. Esteban immediately forgot half the names he overheard.

Charles moved toward the counter. Grabbing bottles with the confidence of someone who'd done this before. Probably because he had.

A bottle opened. Then another. A few plastic cups. Ice. The process happened quickly. Effortlessly. Clearly practiced.

Pierre wandered over and leaned against the counter. Entirely relaxed. As though this was just another Saturday. Maybe for him it was.

Esteban stayed close. Trying not to look as out of place as he felt.

Charles finished mixing the drinks. Then turned around. Holding out two cups. One toward Pierre. One toward Esteban. Pierre accepted his immediately. Without hesitation. Naturally.

Esteban, however, hesitated. Only briefly. The cup felt unexpectedly heavy in his hand. And honestly? He had no idea what he was doing. He'd never really drunk anything before. Not properly.

There had been exactly one attempt. A sip of beer at a family gathering. One tiny sip. Just enough to determine it tasted absolutely terrible. Like disappointment. And piss. And something vaguely rotten. Everyone else had insisted it was an acquired taste. Esteban wasn't interested in acquiring it.

Unfortunately, standing in Charles' kitchen surrounded by Pierre's friends felt very different from sitting at a family barbecue.

The cup remained in his hand. Cold. Condensation already forming against the plastic. He looked down at it. Then up again. Nobody seemed particularly interested in what he was doing. Nobody was watching him. Nobody cared. Yet somehow he still felt selfconscious.

Because this was Pierre's world. Pierre's friends. Pierre's party. And the last thing Esteban wanted was to seem childish. Or awkward. Or like he didn't belong.

Which was ridiculous. Because he already felt childish, awkward and like he didn’t belong.

Pierre noticed immediately. Of course he did. His gaze flickered toward the untouched cup. Then toward Esteban. A tiny frown appeared.

"What?" Esteban asked.

Pierre tilted his head. "You don't have to drink it." The statement arrived casually. Without judgment. Without pressure. Like it genuinely didn't matter.

Charles looked over. Then shrugged. "We've got soda too."

Just like that something inside Esteban shifted.

Soda. Like he was a child.

"I will be fine," Esteban said eventually.

Charles shrugged again. "Your call."

When Pierre and Charles both tipped their cups back, Esteban figured he should probably do the same. For appearances if nothing else.

So he took a sip.

Immediately regretted it.

His entire face tried to fold in on itself. The taste hit him all at once. Sharp. Burning. Strangely spicy. Like someone had somehow turned liquid into a chili pepper.

The taste wasn't as bad as beer. Nothing could ever be as bad as beer. But it certainly wasn't good. Not even remotely.

The liquid burned down his throat and settled heavily in his stomach.

Esteban fought desperately to keep his expression neutral. He wasn't entirely successful. Thankfully, neither Pierre nor Charles seemed to notice. Or if they did, they were kind enough not to comment.

Pierre was already moving. Apparently standing still for longer than three minutes violated some fundamental law of his existence. "Come on."

Before Esteban could react, Pierre's hand was wrapping around his wrist. Pulling him gently through the crowded house.

The cup remained trapped in Esteban's other hand. A constant reminder of his poor life choices.

People blurred together as they moved from room to room. Faces. Names. Conversations. Music. Everything felt slightly overwhelming. Not bad. Just... a lot.

Pierre, meanwhile, seemed perfectly at ease. Every few steps someone greeted him. Called his name. Pulled him into a conversation. Asked him a question.

It was bizarre.

Esteban had always known Pierre was popular. Obviously. You didn't need functioning eyesight to notice that. But seeing it outside school somehow made it more real. People genuinely liked him. Wanted to talk to him. Wanted him around.

The realization didn't surprise Esteban. Not really.

Pierre was annoying. Insufferable at times. Ridiculously dramatic. But he was also funny. The sort of person who could make anyone feel included without even trying. Still, watching it happen in real time felt strange.

Eventually Pierre led him toward a group gathered in the garden at the back of the house. People Esteban definitely didn't recognize. Older. Noticeably older. A few looked like they might already be in university. One of them had a beard. An actual beard. Which somehow made him seem about forty.

Esteban immediately felt out of place. Again.

The conversation stopped briefly when they approached. Several pairs of eyes turning toward them. Toward him.

His grip tightened slightly around the plastic cup. The alcohol suddenly felt much more useful. At least the taste wasn't quite as horrible anymore. Somewhere between the first sip and now it had become... tolerable. Not good. Definitely not good. But manageable. Which was probably concerning.

Pierre greeted them like old friends. Esteban meanwhile listened quietly. Trying to piece things together. Apparently none of them attended their school. At least not anymore. Which immediately raised questions.

How did Pierre know them?

Where had they met?

Why did everyone seem to know everyone?

The social web surrounding Pierre continued to confuse him.

Unfortunately asking felt impossible. The mere idea made embarrassment crawl up his neck.

So instead he stayed close. Nursed his drink. And listened.

One of the older guys looked between him and Pierre. A grin slowly spreading across his face. Dangerous. The kind that usually meant trouble.

"So that's your newest side piece?" The question landed like a brick.

The group laughed. Not cruelly. Not maliciously. More like someone making an obvious joke.

Yet something inside Esteban immediately bristled.

Newest side piece?

His eyebrows rose before he could stop them.

As if there had been multiple. As if Pierre was collecting people. The phrase felt even worse when he related it back to himself. Cheap somehow. Dismissive. Like he was temporary. Unimportant. Some random person Pierre had brought along for the evening.

Except he wasn't.

He wasn't some side piece.

He wasn't some random hookup.

He wasn't somebody Pierre had picked up last week.

They'd been together for months. Actual months. Long enough that Esteban knew exactly how Pierre took his coffee on exam days. Long enough that Pierre had somehow developed the ability to detect every emotion on Esteban's face within seconds. Long enough that Esteban couldn't remember what his afternoons looked like before Pierre started filling all of them.

The thought made the irritation grow. Just slightly.

Beside him, Pierre rolled his eyes. "Esteban, that's Daniil." Pierre gestured toward the tall blond leaning against the wall. "Daniil. Esteban."

The introduction was brief. Casual. Like Pierre expected everyone he knew to automatically get along. Which, honestly, was probably how his brain worked.

Daniil looked him over for a second. Not rudely. Just curiously. Then, to Esteban's surprise, he held out a hand. Maybe he'd judged him too quickly. Maybe the side piece comment had just been an unfortunate joke.

Esteban reached out to shake his hand. The second their hands met, Daniil leaned forward slightly. Like he was sharing state secrets. Like nobody else was supposed to hear.

"So," he fake whispered, "is he keeping you up all night?"

Esteban blinked. "...what?"

Daniil wiggled his eyebrows. The gesture somehow made the question even more confusing.

Esteban's own eyebrows drew together. Because what kind of question even was that? Pierre talked a lot. Pierre texted constantly. Pierre occasionally called him at stupid hours because he'd remembered something "important." But none of those things seemed related.

Beside him, Pierre immediately groaned. "Oh my god."

Before Daniil could continue, Pierre smacked him on the arm. Not hard. Just enough.

"Ow!"

"What is wrong with you?"

Daniil looked genuinely offended. For approximately two seconds. Then realization seemed to hit him. Just as hard as Pierre’s smack. His eyes moved between them. Then back again. Then widened.

"Oh." Daniil pointed between them. "Oh, you haven't fucked yet?" The words came out loud enough that several people nearby immediately started laughing.

Pierre looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. "Daniil."

"Damn."

"Daniil."

"That's actually impressive."

Pierre dragged a hand down his face. The universal gesture for ‘please stop talking’.

Daniil ignored it. Entirely. "That has got to be some kind of record for you."

At that, Pierre's expression darkened.

Daniil either didn't notice. Or was too drunk to care. "Didn't take you for the waiting type after the whole Kika thing."

There it was. The thing. The story. The one everyone knew. The one that followed Pierre around school whether he wanted it to or not.

The whole school knew the rumors. Pierre and Kika. The breakup. The gossip. Everyone had their own version. Everyone claimed to know what happened. The details changed depending on who was telling it.

Pierre never corrected any of them. Never explained. Never defended himself. Which, somehow, only encouraged people more.

Then again it wasn’t like Pierre needed to. He was praised for ‘hitting that’ and Kika was stamped as ‘the slut who couldn’t keep her legs together’. If you asked Pierre there was more to their breakup than dumping her the a day after they fucked, but no one ever bothered asking him - so he never bothered clearing it up, as long as he stayed popular.

"Fuck you, man." Pierre's voice was flat.

Pierre was already moving before Daniil could say anything. His hand finding Esteban's wrist. The crowd parted around them as Pierre guided him away.

Music growing louder again. Conversations swallowing the awkwardness behind them. Somewhere in the distance Daniil shouted something after them. Something about finally getting laid. Followed by a chorus of groans and someone telling him to shut up.

Only once they reached the next room did he finally stop. His grip loosened. Though he never completely let go.

"Ignore him." His voice sounded irritated. Not at Esteban - at Daniil. "He had a few too many drinks."

—

From there, Pierre apparently decided the best solution was to temporarily park Esteban on a couch. Literally.

"Stay here."

Esteban looked up. Pierre was already half turned away.

"Stay here?" he repeated.

Pierre nodded. "Just for a minute."

"A minute."

"Five minutes."

"Pierre."

"Ten minutes maximum." Neither of them believed that.

Pierre grinned. Completely shameless. Then he pressed his nearly empty cup into Esteban's hands. Reached over to steal a quick sip from Esteban's own drink before pressing a kiss to Esteban’s cheek. Then he disappeared into the crowd before Esteban could complain.

Traitor.

For the first few minutes, it wasn't so bad. The couch sat against one wall of the living room. Far enough away from the speakers that conversation was still possible. Close enough to everything that he could watch people moving through the house.

Groups formed. Separated. Reformed somewhere else. Music changed. People laughed. Someone nearly dropped an entire bowl of chips.

It was almost entertaining. Almost.

The problem was that eventually watching strangers became less interesting. And Pierre remained missing.

Esteban checked his phone. No messages.

Five minutes became ten. Ten became fifteen.

His drink slowly disappeared. Somewhere along the way he acquired another one. He wasn't entirely sure how. Someone had walked past carrying a tray. Asked if he wanted one.

Esteban had said yes before fully processing the question.

Now he was nursing drink number two. And unfortunately the alcohol was working. Not dramatically. He wasn't drunk. At least he didn't think so.

But there was a warmth sitting beneath his skin. A pleasant buzzing sensation in his fingertips. His thoughts felt slightly softer around the edges. The music seemed louder. The room brighter. And Pierre keeping him waiting slightly more tolerable.

Esteban glanced around again. Maybe he should go looking for him.

He was just considering standing up when the empty space around him suddenly vanished. A group appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Several people carrying drinks. A deck of cards. Far too much enthusiasm.

The couch dipped as they sat down around him. Someone pushed a coffee table closer. The deck of cards landed on top.

One of the guys looked over. Dark curls. Bright smile. Already slightly flushed from alcohol. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You look lonely."

That was rude. Accurate. But rude.

Before Esteban could respond, the guy held up the deck. "We're playing King's Cup." A pause. "Want in?"

Esteban looked around. At the cards. At the people. At the empty space where Pierre still wasn't. Then back at the cards.

Honestly? What else was he doing? Waiting?

He'd already been doing that. And Pierre clearly wasn't in a hurry.

"Sure."

The grin immediately widened. "Perfect."

The curly haired guy introduced himself at some point. "Danny." Then, after a dramatic pause: "Danny Ricc. Some People only call me Daniel though."

Daniel turned out to be surprisingly nice. The sort of person who could talk to absolutely anyone. Within minutes he was including Esteban in conversations. Introducing people. Generally making sure he didn't feel left out. Which was appreciated. Especially considering Esteban had arrived expecting Pierre's friends to be terrifying.

Daniel was not terrifying. He was just loud, sure, but there was a difference.

When Esteban's drink emptied, Danny somehow noticed immediately. "Dangerously empty."

Before Esteban could object, another cup appeared in front of him. Esteban wasn't entirely sure refusing would accomplish anything. So he accepted it. Possibly a mistake. Definitely a mistake.

The game started. And immediately went badly. Very badly.

Apparently King's Cup wasn't really a card game. Not in the traditional sense. It was a drinking game disguised as a card game. An important distinction. One Esteban would have appreciated knowing beforehand.

The first few rounds were manageable. Then the rules started attacking him personally. Every card seemed to require remembering something. Doing something. Saying something. Not saying something.

The instructions blurred together almost instantly.

Everyone else appeared to know exactly what they were doing. Which felt deeply unfair.

Esteban picked the wrong card. Drank.

Forgot a rule. Drank.

Asked a question he apparently wasn't supposed to ask. Drank.

Within twenty minutes he'd become the group's favorite victim.

"Drink." One girl pointed at him.

"Why?"

"Drink." the person turned around the club two “two - one for you.”

Everyone laughed. Esteban rolled his eyes. He hated that card. Just as much as the three, because that meant one self had to drink.

Somewhere between one round and the next, he realized he was actually having fun. Real fun. Not forced fun. Not pretending. The kind that snuck up on you unexpectedly. The nervousness he'd carried all week about meeting Pierre’s friends had faded almost completely.

Nobody seemed to care that he was younger. Or quieter. Or didn't know half the people in the room. Nobody expected him to be cool. Which was fortunate. Because he absolutely wasn't.

Another card hit the table. Someone cheered. Someone else groaned. Daniel laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. The noise seemed to be enough to attract Mac to the group who settled down next to Daniel, joining the game.

By the time they drew a jack, Esteban was already feeling pleasantly floaty. Not drunk drunk. At least he didn't think so. But definitely drunk enough that concentrating on the rules had become significantly harder. The room felt warmer. The music seemed louder. And everybody around the table had become approximately thirty percent funnier. Which was probably a warning sign.

"Alright," Danny announced, dramatically placing the card in the middle of the table. "Never Have I Ever."

A collective groan rose from around the group. Immediately people started arguing. About rules. About who cheated last round. About whether certain questions should be banned. The discussion lasted almost two full minutes before anyone actually asked one.

"Never have I ever gotten detention."

Half the table lowered a finger. Including Esteban.

"Didn't expect that from you," someone laughed. Esteban just shrugged. His parents would probably kill him if they knew he got detention for skipping with Pierre.

The game continued. Question after question. Some harmless. Some embarrassing. Some designed specifically to make one person groan. Every round brought more laughter. More accusations. More stories. More fingers disappearing.

Then Max leaned forward. A grin already spreading across his face. "Oh, I have one." That statement alone was enough to make several people groan. "Never have I ever gotten a BJ."

Immediately fingers started going down around the table. Accompanied by complaints. And laughter. And a few dramatic accusations.

"Oh, come on." - "Seriously?" - "That one is unfair." - "How is that unfair?"

Esteban mostly just sat there. Watching. Trying to keep up. The alcohol had made him slower. Not physically - mentally. Like there was a slight delay between things happening and his brain processing them.

Somehow that question opened the floodgates. From there on, every question seemed to become sex related. Every single one.

The game spiraled rapidly. People laughed. People complained. More fingers disappeared. Stories started being told. Some of them against the owners' will. The group seemed determined to expose each other.

Meanwhile Esteban's fingers remained stubbornly raised.

One by one everyone else dropped lower.

Three fingers.

Two fingers.

One finger.

Except Esteban. He was still sitting there with four fingers up. The only finger he'd lost all game had come from a question about detention. Which suddenly felt embarrassingly innocent compared to everyone else.

At first nobody noticed.

Then Max did. His eyes narrowed. He looked around the table. Then back at Esteban. Then at Esteban's fingers. "Fuck, man. Are you a virgin or something?"

The entire table immediately looked over.

The words hit Esteban like a truck. His face instantly grew warm. Then warmer. Then somehow even warmer. The alcohol certainly wasn't helping. If anything, it felt like the redness already in his cheeks doubled immediately.

The table exploded into laughter. Not mean laughter. Not cruel. Just surprised. The kind that made Esteban want to disappear into the couch cushions anyway.

"Oh my god." - "No way." - "Seriously?" - "That's actually impressive."

Esteban covered part of his face with one hand. Which only made everyone laugh harder.

"Leave him alone," somebody said. Then immediately started laughing again. All of them Even Daniel. Daniel, who had been incredibly nice all evening. Daniel, who had patiently explained the game. Daniel, who had gotten him another drink. Even he couldn't stop grinning.

"Man," Daniel said eventually, shaking his head. "We have to change that."

The table immediately started laughing again.

"Do you have any girl at school?" Daniel pointed at him dramatically. "We can help you get with her."

That suggestion earned him an immediate shove from Max. Hard enough to make his drink slosh dangerously. "He's Pierre's new boyfriend, idiot."

The realization hit Daniel almost immediately. His eyes widened. Then he looked at Esteban. Then around the table. Then back at Esteban. "Wait. Really? Pierre's?"

At that, Daniel turned fully toward him. Looking genuinely confused. Which somehow felt worse. "And you're still a virgin?"

Esteban wanted the floor to open beneath him. Immediately. Right now. No questions asked.

The group was already snickering again. A few people trying - and failing - to hide their laughter behind their drinks.

Daniel, meanwhile, looked completely sincere. As though he was trying to solve a difficult mathematical problem. "You know taking it up the ass also counts, right?"

The entire table lost it. Groans. Laughter. Someone nearly choked on their drink. And somehow the fact that Daniel sounded so genuinely serious about the question made everything infinitely worse.

Esteban couldn't help thinking about it. Which was probably the alcohol's fault. Everything felt bigger when he was drunk. Louder. Brighter. More important. And unfortunately that included embarrassment.

The laughter around the table continued. Not mean. Not cruel. But it still echoed inside his head.

Pierre's boyfriend - and you're still a virgin?

The words replayed on a loop. Over. And over. And over again.

Maybe he should have had sex already. Maybe this was weird. Maybe everybody else his age had already done it. Maybe everybody except him. Maybe Pierre had expected them to have done it already. Maybe- maybe he needed another drink.

That sounded reasonable. At least drunk Esteban thought so.

Without really announcing his departure, he pushed himself up from the couch. The movement felt oddly unsteady. Not enough to stumble. Just enough that he noticed it.

The group was still laughing behind him. Already moving on to another round of the game. Another victim. Another joke. Another argument.

Nobody paid much attention as he slipped away.

The kitchen wasn't quite empty. A few people stood talking near the counters. Others leaned against cabinets. Someone was looking through the fridge. Nobody paid attention to Esteban. Which was exactly what he wanted.

He made his way over to the drinks. The bottles lined up across the counter. Some nearly empty. Others freshly opened.

Esteban stared at them for a moment. Trying to remember how Charles had mixed the drinks earlier.

There had definitely been Coke. And maybe Vodka? Or Tequila? Probably Vodka.

He grabbed a cup. Added some ice. Poured in vodka. Then Coke. Or maybe it was more vodka than Coke. Honestly, it was difficult to tell. The liquid ended up sitting somewhere around 50/50 which felt right.

The color of the drink was way clearer than the dark colored drinks he had had before Definitely not how Charles had done it. Or Pierre. Or anyone with functioning common sense.

Esteban looked down at it. Then shrugged. Good enough. He took a sip. Immediately regretted it.

The burn hit him like a punch. Much stronger than before. Much sharper. His entire face scrunched up.

The drink tasted awful. Absolutely awful. Like liquid fire.

For a moment he considered throwing it away. Making another one. Doing literally anything else. Instead he tipped the cup back. Drank the entire thing in one go. The burning sensation became significantly worse.

His eyes watered. His throat felt like it was on fire. The logical part of his brain suggested this was a terrible idea. Unfortunately that part of his brain seemed to be losing influence rapidly.

The cup emptied. Esteban set it down. Waited a few seconds. Then reached for the bottles again. Maybe he could make it better this time. Less vodka. More Coke. Something drinkable.

Instead he somehow ended up making almost the exact same thing.

He stared at it. Took another sip. Winced. Then drank the rest.

The warmth spreading through his body intensified immediately. His head felt lighter. The room seemed softer. Fuzzier. The knot of embarrassment in his chest finally started loosening. Which felt nice. Dangerously nice.

So he poured another.

And another.

Each one disappearing faster than the last.

—

Esteban wasn't sure how much time had passed. Five minutes. Twenty. An hour. The concept of time felt strangely distant.

He wasn't entirely sure how much of the now nearly empty vodka bottle had ended up in his drinks either. Probably less than it looked. Hopefully less than it looked. Though somehow he doubted that.

All he knew was that he didn't feel great.

He didn't feel great at all.

The pleasant buzz from earlier had disappeared completely. Replaced by something much worse. His stomach churned unhappily. His head felt heavy. The room seemed to sway every few seconds despite the fact that he was standing perfectly still. Or at least he thought he was. Honestly, it was hard to tell.

The kitchen lights felt too bright. The music felt too loud. Everything felt too much.

Esteban gripped the edge of the counter harder. Both hands wrapped around it desperately. Like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Which, at this point, might actually have been true. Because he was increasingly convinced that the moment he let go, gravity would immediately win.

The floor seemed very far away and also alarmingly close at once.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Instantly regretted it. That somehow made everything worse. His stomach rolled violently.

"Nope." The word came out quietly. Mostly to himself. Definitely to himself.

Opening his eyes again didn't help much. The room still tilted slightly. The counter still felt like the only stable object in existence. His mouth tasted vaguely like cheap Voska. And cheap regret. Mostly cheap Vodka though.

"Esteban? Pierre has been looking for you."

The sound of his name cut through the haze immediately. Like a teacher suddenly calling on him in the middle of class. His head snapped upward on instinct. The movement was a terrible mistake. A wave of nausea surged through him so quickly that he nearly doubled over.

For a moment he genuinely thought he might throw up right there. He swallowed hard. Then harder. Trying desperately to keep everything where it belonged.

When his vision finally settled enough to focus, he found Charles standing across from him. The older boy stared. Blinking once. Twice. His expression changing rapidly. Confusion. Concern. Realization.

Then something that could only be described as: “Oh shit.”

Charles glanced at the bottle. Then back at Esteban. "How much did you drink?"

Esteban considered the question. Genuinely. For several seconds. The answer never arrived.

"I dunno." The words slurred together slightly.

Charles immediately closed his eyes. Like he was praying for patience. "Okay." A pause. "Okay." That second okay sounded significantly more concerned than the first one.

Charles moved closer. Careful. Like Esteban was a wild animal that might suddenly fall over. Which honestly wasn't an unreasonable concern. "You need to sit down."

"I'm fine."

"You are absolutely not fine."

"I'm-" The room tilted again. Violently. Esteban stopped talking.

Charles nodded immediately. "See?"

The next thing Esteban knew, Charles had a hand on his shoulder. Guiding him carefully toward the floor. The cool kitchen tiles felt incredible. The second he sat down, he leaned back against one of the cabinets. Closing his eyes briefly.

Charles crouched in front of him. Studying him. Probably making sure he wasn't about to die. Esteban wasn't entirely convinced himself.

"You wait here, okay?"

Esteban opened one eye.

Charles pointed at him. Actually pointed. Like he was talking to a child. "Do not move."

"I'm not moving."

"Good." A beat. Then: "I'll be right back."

Esteban nodded. Or attempted to. The motion felt strangely delayed.

Charles stood. Still looking concerned. Then disappeared from the kitchen. Leaving Esteban alone on the floor.

The music continued somewhere beyond the walls. People laughed. Voices drifted in and out. The party carried on completely unaware that Esteban was currently losing a battle against his own stomach. His gaze slowly lifted. Toward the counter. Toward the nearly empty vodka bottle sitting there. Mocking him. Taunting him. Just like that stupif frog on his Biology book.

Esteban narrowed his eyes at it. "Fuck you," he muttered.

It didn't take long before Charles came back. This time with Pierre in tow. The two of them were talking. Maybe arguing. Esteban couldn't really tell. The words blended together somewhere above his head. Too fast. Too complicated. Too much effort.

Something about responsibility. Something about alcohol. Something about Pierre disappearing. Or maybe Esteban was imagining that part. Honestly, it was getting harder and harder to tell what was actually happening. So instead he closed his eyes.

The cool cabinet pressed against his back. The kitchen floor beneath him felt pleasantly cold. The spinning had slowed slightly since sitting down.

He might have drifted off. His thoughts floating somewhere he couldn't quite follow.

The next thing he knew, something was tapping against his cheek. Lightly. Again. And again.

"Esteban." Another tap. "Esteban."

His eyelids felt heavy. Eventually he forced them open. The world came back in pieces. Blurred shapes. Bright lights. Blue. Very blue. Pierre’s eyes.

"There you are." Pierre's face slowly came into focus.

Those icy blue eyes locked onto Esteban's brown ones immediately. Relief washed across Pierre's expression so quickly that Esteban almost missed it.

"Hey." The word came out slurred.

Pierre huffed out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "Hey yourself."

Esteban blinked. Then smiled weakly. For some reason seeing Pierre made everything feel significantly better. The room was still spinning. His stomach still felt questionable. But Pierre was here. And somehow that seemed important.

Pierre crouched down in front of him. One hand settling briefly against the side of Esteban's face. "You with me?"

Esteban considered the question. "I think so."

Charles made a noise behind Pierre. A noise that sounded a lot like he was trying not to laugh.

Pierre ignored him. "Think so?"

"Mhm."

Pierre sighed. Then, without further discussion, the rescue operation began. Charles grabbed one arm. Pierre grabbed the other.

"Okay. Up we go."

Esteban immediately objected. Mostly because standing sounded terrible. Unfortunately nobody asked for his opinion. The second they pulled him upright, the world tilted alarmingly. His knees nearly buckled. Pierre tightened his grip immediately.

Together they guided him through the house as the party continued around them. People moved aside. A few called out questions. Someone whistled. Someone else laughed.

Esteban ignored all of it. Mostly because walking currently required all of his concentration. The stairs were particularly offensive.

Who invented stairs? What purpose did they serve? Why were there so many of them?

By the time they finally reached the second floor, Esteban felt like he'd completed an FitnessGram pacer test.

The difference was immediate. Upstairs was quieter. Not silent. Just quieter. The bass from the music became distant. Muffled by the walls. The lights weren't nearly as bright either. Everything felt calmer. Softer.

Pierre guided him down the hallway. One hand still firmly wrapped around his arm. Like he didn't trust Esteban not to immediately fall over.

Eventually Charles stopped in front of a door. Pushing it open. "My room."

The bedroom was surprisingly tidy. At least compared to what Esteban had expected from a guy hosting a house party. Then again, maybe Charles had cleaned beforehand for some girl he planned on sleeping with. That seemed like something Charles would do.

Together they maneuvered Esteban inside. Depositing him carefully onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Immediately better than standing. Infinitely better.

Charles disappeared briefly. Returning a moment later holding a bucket. The kind usually reserved for very unfortunate situations.

He handed it directly to Pierre. "Just in case."

Pierre accepted it without argument. Which told Esteban everything he needed to know. Apparently nobody had much faith in his current condition. To be fair, neither did he. Although at the moment he didn't actually feel like throwing up.

Dizzy? Absolutely. Embarrassed? Definitely. A little bit miserable? For sure. But not nauseous enough for that.

Pierre, however, kept the bucket close anyway. Resting it beside the bed. Within easy reach. Because unlike Esteban, Pierre had apparently been drunk enough before to know exactly how quickly things could change. And judging by the look on his face, he wasn't taking any chances.

—

So that's how they ended up in bed together. Well, not exactly together. Pierre was sitting against the headboard, one hand absent mindedly running what he hoped were comforting circles over Esteban's chest while the younger lay beside him.

The room was quiet. Much quieter than downstairs. The distant thump of music barely reached them anymore. For the first time all evening, everything felt still.

Pierre glanced down every now and then, checking that Esteban was still awake. Still breathing normally. Still not about to throw up. Still not choking on his own vomit. The bucket remained within arm's reach. Just in case.

Esteban, meanwhile, simply stared up at him. And thought. Which was probably dangerous. Especially in his current state.

His thoughts felt slow and tangled together. The alcohol made it difficult to separate one from the next. Every embarrassing moment from earlier seemed to replay itself on a loop. The drinking game. The laughter. The questions. The looks people had exchanged. The assumptions they had made. And somehow, despite everything else that had happened tonight, those moments were the ones that stuck.

Maybe he should have done something differently. Maybe everyone else was right. Maybe he was behind. Maybe Pierre expected more from him. Maybe Pierre had been waiting for him to catch up this entire time.

The thoughts kept circling. Growing larger. Louder. More convincing. Even though a small part of him knew they probably weren't true.

Pierre had never pressured him. Not once. Never asked for more. Never made him feel inadequate.

But alcohol had a way of making bad ideas sound reasonable. And reasonable ideas sound urgent.

Before he could think too hard about it, Esteban pushed himself upright. The sudden movement made the room tilt alarmingly. His head spun. His stomach protested. For a moment he nearly reconsidered.

Pierre's hand immediately moved to steady him. "Easy."

But Esteban barely heard him. Instead he reached forward. Closing the distance between them. And kissed him.

Pierre froze for a second. Caught completely off guard. Then relaxed into it. One hand moving instinctively to the back of Esteban's neck. Grounding him. Steadying him.

The kiss tasted faintly of alcohol.

Vodka.

Coke.

The remnants of a terrible evening. Esteban could taste it on Pierre's lips. And he was fairly certain Pierre could taste it on his. Neither of them pulled away.

The kiss lingered. Soft at first. Then deeper.

This part wasn't new. They had kissed and made out before. Many times. Enough that Esteban knew exactly how Pierre would tilt his head. Enough that Pierre immediately understood where Esteban needed his hands to move.

Yet tonight felt different. Not because of the kiss itself. Because of everything happening inside Esteban's head. Because while Pierre kissed him back, all Esteban could think about were the voices from downstairs.

The questions. The teasing. The assumptions. And maybe it was the alcohol talking. Maybe it was embarrassment. Maybe it was insecurity disguised as courage.

But sitting there in Charles's bedroom, with Pierre's hand resting against his jaw and his heart pounding far too fast, Esteban found himself convinced that tonight needed to be different. That tonight he should stop hesitating. That tonight he should finally give Pierre what everyone seemed so certain Pierre wanted.

Esteban wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up on his back again. One moment he'd been sitting up. The next he was sinking into the mattress, the room spinning pleasantly and horribly all at once.

At least Pierre was still there. Still kissing him. Still hovering above him. Close enough that Esteban could feel the warmth radiating from his body. Close enough that, for a little while, he could stop thinking.

His hands slipped from Pierre's hair. Down the back of his neck. Across his shoulders. Over his back. The movements growing increasingly uncertain. Less confident. Like he wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing - only that he should be doing something.

His hands wandered lower until they disappeared between their bodies. Fumbling awkwardly. Esteban first managed to undo his own trousers. The task taking far more concentration than it should have. His fingers felt clumsy. Uncooperative. But eventually he got them open. A small surge of accomplishment washed through him.

Then he reached for Pierre. Trying to work at the older boy's belt. Trying to free it from the first loop. The metal buckle seemed impossibly complicated. His fingers slipping. Missing. Having to start over.

Before he'd even managed much of anything, Pierre's hand suddenly closed around his wrist. Firm. Certain. Stopping him. Pulling his hand away.

Esteban made a frustrated noise into the kiss. The sound muffled against Pierre's mouth. Then immediately tried again. More stubborn than successful.

This time Pierre caught both of his wrists. Pinning them gently against the mattress beside his head. Not hurting him. Just preventing him from continuing.

The kiss broke. The loss of it made Esteban frown.

Pierre leaned back slightly. Looking down at him. Really looking at him. And whatever he saw seemed to make his expression soften immediately.

"Esteban." His voice was calm. Patient. The kind of voice people used when they were trying very hard not to start an argument. "You are drunk." The words came out matter of factly. Simple. Like they explained everything. "You can't consent."

For a second Esteban simply stared at him, completely caught off guard. His brain struggling to catch up. Because hadn't this been what Pierre wanted? Wasn't this what everyone downstairs had been talking about?

The doubts immediately rushed back. Did Pierre not want him? Had he waited too long? Had Pierre simply decided it wasn't worth it anymore?

The alcohol made every insecurity feel bigger than it really was. Pierre must have seen something on his face. Because his expression softened even further.

Slowly he released Esteban's wrists. One hand moving instead to cup the side of his face. His thumb brushing lightly across his cheek. Another kiss was pressed against the corner of Esteban's mouth.

"We'll talk about this tomorrow."

Tomorrow. When Esteban wasn't drunk. When the room wasn't spinning. When he could actually think.

Pierre pressed one last kiss against his forehead. Then shifted off him completely. The mattress rose slightly as the weight disappeared.

—

When Esteban woke up the next morning, he was painfully aware of exactly how many drinks he'd had last night. Mostly because his body seemed determined to make sure he knew.

His head felt like someone had split it clean down the middle. Every heartbeat sent another pulse of pain behind his eyes. The sunlight filtering through the curtains wasn't helping either. Far too bright. Far too aggressive. Far too early.

Esteban groaned. The sound barely made it out of his throat before he buried his face deeper into the pillow. Immediately regretting even that movement.

Everything hurt. His head. His stomach. Even his eyes somehow hurt.

For several long seconds he simply lay there. Trying to gather enough courage to open his eyes properly. Trying to remember how he'd gotten here. Trying not to die.

Eventually he cracked one eye open. Then the other. The room came into focus slowly. A bedroom. Charles's bedroom.

Right… the party. The realization arrived together with another unpleasant wave of memories.

Esteban immediately wanted to crawl back under the blankets and never emerge again. Unfortunately another realization hit him before he could.

His pants were undone. Completely undone. The denim of his jeans sat bunched awkwardly around his thighs beneath the blankets.

Esteban froze. Then sat upright far too quickly. The movement nearly killed him. Pain exploded behind his eyes. His stomach rolled dangerously. But suddenly he was very awake. Very, very awake.

His gaze dropped immediately.

Still undone. Still halfway down his legs.

His heart began pounding.

Snippets of last night started surfacing. Disconnected. Incomplete. Like pieces of a puzzle dumped onto the floor. He remembered Pierre. That part was easy. He remembered kissing him. A lot of kissing. Enough that even now the memory made heat crawl up the back of his neck. Then… nothing.

Or almost nothing.

Fragments. Pierre's voice. A hand holding his wrist. Someone saying his name. The room spinning. The bucket.

Esteban squeezed his eyes shut. Because that part he remembered. Unfortunately. The memory arrived with horrifying clarity.

Him hanging halfway off the side of the bed after waking up. The bucket clutched desperately in front of him. His entire body shaking as he threw up everything he'd consumed in the last twelve hours. Possibly his soul as well.

Meanwhile Pierre had been sitting beside him. One hand rubbing slow circles across his back. Telling him he would feel better once he was done. Again. And again. And again. The memory made him want to disappear.

Slowly Esteban lowered himself back against the pillows. One arm thrown across his face. Trying desperately to piece together the missing parts of the evening. There was still a gap. A large one. Somewhere between kissing Pierre and vomiting into a bucket.

And judging by the state of his jeans, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what had happened inside it.

Esteban flinched out of the memory when the bedroom door suddenly opened. The movement immediately punished him. A sharp pulse of pain shot through his skull.

Pierre stepped inside carrying a bottle of water and a blister pack of ibuprofen. A sandwich was clenched between his teeth. The sight was ridiculous enough that, despite everything, Esteban almost laughed. Almost. His head hurt too much for that.

"Oh." The word came out muffled by bread as Pierre noticed he was awake. "If I'd known you were up, I would've brought you a sandwich too."

Esteban's stomach immediately turned at the thought. Pierre must have noticed. "Or maybe not." A pause. "Actually, definitely not."

The older boy crossed the room. Setting the water and painkillers down on the bedside table. The sandwich disappeared in his mouth shortly after.

Then Pierre sat down beside him. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't awkward exactly.. just heavy. Filled with things that needed to be said.

Esteban stared down at his hands. Pierre stared at the opposite wall. The memory of last night sat stubbornly between them. Every missing piece somehow making it worse. Esteban wasn't entirely sure how to begin. How did one even start that conversation? So he remained quiet. Picking absent mindedly at a loose thread in the blanket.

Thankfully Pierre eventually broke first. "About last night..."

Esteban's shoulders immediately tensed. There it was.

Pierre rubbed the back of his neck. A habit Esteban recognized immediately. One he only did when he was nervous. Or embarrassed. Or trying very hard to find the right words.

Which was strange. Because Pierre was usually good with words. Good at talking. Good at filling silences. Yet now he seemed stuck. His thoughts visibly stalling somewhere behind his eyes.

"I know you haven't really fu-" He paused. Started over. "I know you haven't really done anything yet." The words were careful, like Pierre was afraid of stepping on a landmine. "And I know you know that I have." Another pause. Pierre looked down at his hands. "The guys yesterday made it sound worse than it is."

Esteban didn't say anything. Didn't move. Didn't even look up.

Pierre took a breath, then continued. "And I think maybe you got it into your head that I expected something."

That finally made Esteban look up. Pierre was already watching him. Not accusing. Not angry. Just worried.

Pierre had seen right through him. "I don't." The words came immediately. Firm. Certain. "I don't expect anything."

Esteban swallowed. His throat suddenly feeling tight.

Pierre shifted slightly closer. "We are doing this at your pace, okay?" His voice softened. "You know that, right?"

Esteban stared at him. At the dark circles beneath his eyes. At the slightly messy hair that suggested Pierre hadn't slept particularly well either. At the genuine concern written all over his face.

And suddenly a memory surfaced.

‘You’re drunk. You can’t consent.’ Never once sounding annoyed. Never once making him feel stupid, Never once making him feel rushed.

The others had been wrong about what Pierre wanted.

Because somebody who only wanted one thing probably wouldn't have done that. Somebody who only wanted one thing probably wouldn't have spent half the night taking care of him. Somebody who only wanted one thing probably wouldn't have stopped Esteban last night. Somebody who only wanted one thing probably would have just taken his virginity out of his drunk hands.

Pierre smiled slightly. "I don't mind waiting for you."

For a moment neither of them spoke. Esteban wasn't entirely sure what to say. How to explain everything that had gone through his head. How ridiculous it all sounded now that he was sober. How embarrassed he felt. How grateful he felt. How sorry he felt.

In the end, none of the words came.

So instead he just nodded.

Pierre seemed to understand anyway, because his shoulders relaxed immediately. The tension easing from his face.

"Good." After a second he reached over and pressed the bottle of water into Esteban's hands. "Now take the ibuprofen before you start crying."

Esteban stared at him. "I wasn't going to cry."

"You absolutely were."

"I was not."

Pierre grinned as he pulled Esteban close and pressed a kiss to the side of his head.