Chapter 9
Dmitri
The Kappa Sigma Spring Fling is already in full swing when I push through the front door.
This isn’t my usual scene, but I try not to let it show.
The house is packed and bodies are shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room, with red Solo cups everywhere and bass thumping so hard the floorboards vibrate under my sneakers.
Beer, sweat, and too many competing colognes form a fog that almost chokes me as I step through the crowd. Someone’s shouting lyrics off-key to whatever is blasting through the speakers, and a group near the makeshift bar is doing shots with theatrical cheers.
Professor Silkoff kept me longer than I expected, so I’m an hour later than I’d hoped to be.
I scan the room, searching for blond hair and that easy, lopsided grin.
It takes a second, but I find Eric by himself, leaning against the wall with a cup dangling from his fingers.
The dark sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, displaying a deep tan from all the work outside.
He’s taken advantage of his time here by drinking, if his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes are any indicator. I pause for a moment and soak him in, noticing that subtle edge of loneliness I always spot on him when he thinks no one’s looking.
The second his gaze lands on me, though, the shadows clear and that big, loose smile spreads across his face like the sun breaking through clouds.
He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, swaying just enough to tell me he’s well past tipsy.
The crowd parts around him like he’s magnetic, and he reaches me with a laugh.
It’s high-pitched and absolutely ridiculous, nothing like his usual deep, dry chuckle.
“Hey, man,” he slurs, words thick with amusement. Another of those strange laughs escapes him, and it’s so unexpectedly endearing my chest tightens.
“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay, but I think,” he says, punctuating it with yet another goofy laugh, “that I’m drunk.”
“You think?” I deadpan, already reaching for the Solo cup in his hand.
He makes a delayed, halfhearted objection, but I pluck it away before he can grab it back.
I bring it to my lips and take a long pull, expecting it to be beer.
Sweet, sharp liquor burns my nose and makes my eyes water as an entire mouthful of it rolls down my throat.
I want to gag, but I force myself to swallow.
Eric’s gaze is locked on my throat the entire time I drink. It lingers like a physical touch, and when I lower the cup, his eyes flick up to mine, pupils blown wide in the dim light.
“Dude!” I rasp. “What the fuck was… Ugh!” I thump my chest once, hard, trying to clear the burn, then retch again. “What the fuck was in that?”
Eric snags the empty cup back from me and stares inside. “That, my friend, was four shots of Southern Comfort I’d been sipping on. Congratulations, now you’re drunk too.”
“Aww, fuck, dude,” I say as dread hits me with the same potency as the alcohol. “You know I don’t drink much.”
Partying was never an option when I was younger, not with the watchful eye my father kept on my behavior. Anything that threatened his reputation wasn’t allowed, and I was never brave enough to test those boundaries.
But then college started, and I shed his oversight.
Freshman year, I took full advantage of the newfound freedom and drank way too much at a party.
The next morning, I woke up in the campus playboy’s bed with no memory of the night before.
He swore we only made out, and was irritated enough for me to believe him.
Pair that with the dozen or so pictures I saw of me dancing with strangers, and I was embarrassed enough that I never even told Eric.
It was a hard lesson on my limits with alcohol, and one I’ve tried not to repeat.
Another ringing laugh erupts from Eric, deep from his belly this time as he catches the apprehensive look on my face. He stumbles closer and slings an arm around my shoulders, urging me toward the back porch. “Come on, sit with me for a while. It’ll pass.”
The porch is mercifully quieter than the chaos inside.
Cool spring air cuts through the haze of booze and sweat, and clears some of the nausea already churning in my gut.
Only a handful of people are out here—mostly couples making out in dark corners, though there is someone hanging over the railing and trying not to puke.
Eric drops onto the outdoor sofa, then slaps the cushion next to him. I hesitate for half a second, taking in his flushed cheeks and messy hair. He looks wrecked and beautiful, and he’s completely unaware of it. His eyes lift to mine, and that guardedness he’s always hidden behind is missing.
He looks like he’s made up his mind about something.
Something involving me.
That same alcohol I was apprehensive about moments ago suddenly warms my veins. Without his inhibitions, Eric might finally drop these walls he keeps between us.
I’m a bastard, I realize, as I make the split-second decision.
I know this is wrong, and that the alcohol will hit me harder than it should.
That it’ll loosen my tongue and blur my judgment, and tomorrow I’ll wake up with the same sick knot of shame.
I know it could push Eric past tipsy into sloppy, or worse, make him say things he doesn’t mean.
I know it could ruin this fragile, beautiful thing we’ve been circling for years.
I know all of that.
But I want it.
More than I want to be safe or smart.
More than I want to protect us from whatever comes after.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter. “Hang on.”
People are everywhere as I duck into the kitchen, grab two fresh Solo cups, and fill them with ice and soda. But as I grab the bottle of vodka off the counter, I pause.
I could go back out there and take care of him like I always have. Let him curl into my side while he sobers up, then laugh about it in the morning.
Safe.
Smart.
My hand shakes as I lift the bottle, and clear liquor glugs into my cup—far more heavy-handed than I have any right to be with it. Over Eric’s cup, I only pour enough to keep his buzz going.
Even if I’m in a tailspin, I won’t take away his choice.
Sweat trickles down my spine from nerves, and the cool air is a welcome relief as I step back outside. Eric’s head whips up like he senses me there. I hand him a cup, and he sniffs it before taking a sip. His nose wrinkles when he tastes it, and I chuckle as he glances up at me in question.
“In for a penny, Eric,” I say, raising my cup.
He stares at me for a long second, eyes searching my face like he’s looking for something specific. Then he clinks his cup against mine and takes a long drink.
We sit in the relative quiet of the porch. The music pulses through the open door behind us, but out here it’s muted enough that I can hear his breathing. It’s slow, and a little ragged from the alcohol and whatever else is spinning in his head.
My buzz takes over, and as we sit there, I wonder why I was so worried about this when it all feels so natural.
Eric keeps shifting nearer in small, incremental movements, and my heart beats faster with every one.
First his knee bumps mine, then his thigh presses against my leg.
I glance over and he meets my eyes in silent question.
I lean closer until there’s no space left between us. He’s warm, radiating heat from the booze, and every tiny adjustment feels deliberate, like he’s testing how close he can get before I pull away.
I don’t.
Of course I don’t.
He inches away and takes another slow sip of his drink, then sets the cup on the arm of the sofa. His head tips back against the cushion, eyes half-closed and lashes dark against his flushed skin.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… nice out here.” His voice is lower now, the slurring softer, like the alcohol is settling deeper. “Quiet. With you.”
I smile despite myself. “Yeah. Quiet’s good.”
He turns his head toward me. The porch light catches the gold in his hair, and I stare at the faint freckles dotting across his nose.
His gaze is heavy-lidded and unfocused, telling me the alcohol is hitting him hard.
He’s blinking slower than usual, pupils wide, and when he speaks again his words are careful, like he’s concentrating on each one.
“I keep thinking about the lake,” he murmurs. “That water was so cold. But you… you were warm.”
My pulse kicks up. “You were freezing. Teeth chattering the whole time.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Still felt warm. When you were close.” Another small scoot presses his thigh harder against mine, then he tilts his hips until he’s practically in my lap without actually climbing into it. “You always feel warm.”
I swallow. “You’re drunk, Eric.”
“Mm.” He nods, like he’s agreeing with something profound. “Getting there. But still true.”
He rests his head on my shoulder. The motion is tentative, like he’s waiting for permission. When I don’t move away, he relaxes and presses his cheek into my hoodie. His hand settles over top of mine, curling his fingers into a loose grip as his thumb brushes my knuckles
“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” I say softly.
“Never regret anything with you,” he insists. “Missed you.”
“What’d you miss?” I ask, taking another too-long gulp of my drink. It burns on the way down, and the first real wave hits hard. Heat spreads through my chest, loosening the knot that’s been there since I walked in and saw him against the wall.
“Missed… this,” he finally murmurs. “Just sitting. With you. No one else around. No noise in my head.” His thumb brushes over my skin again, tracing my knuckles in slow circles. “Missed hearing you breathe. Knowing you’re right here.”
My pulse thumps under his touch, and I tilt up my cup and let the rest of the drink fall down my throat.
The vodka is working faster now. My limbs feel heavier, and the edges of the porch light are softening into halos around us.
I’m starting to feel the same pleasant looseness he has, the same quiet bravery that lets words slip out without overthinking.
“You’re getting me drunk too, you know,” I say, voice low.
He huffs a small laugh against my shoulder. “Good. Fair’s fair.” He shifts again, and there’s no space left between us. “You feel good. Always do.”
I turn my head so my cheek rests against the top of his hair. His scent hits me—sweat, rainwater soap, and a trace of the lake still clinging somehow.
Maybe that part’s just in my head.
The buzz is charging through my veins now, making everything feel closer, softer… braver.
“I missed you too,” I admit quietly. “All week. Every text. Every stupid picture. Felt like you were the only thing keeping me sane.”
He makes a small, pleased sound in his throat. His fingers tighten in mine—not clumsy anymore, just sure. “Good. ‘Cause you’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”
We sit like that for a long stretch, with our shoulders pressed, hands laced, and breathing in sync.
The party noise feels distant, like it’s happening in another world entirely.
The vodka is doing its job, relaxing my limbs and flushing my face until I’m lightheaded.
A haze pulses around the edges of my vision, and I twist until my lips are against his temple.
He melts into me, and I press the softest kiss to his forehead. “You okay?” I ask after a while, voice soft.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Better than okay. You?”
“Getting there.” I squeeze his hand. “This… this is good.”
He nods against my shoulder. “Really good.”
The porch light flickers once overhead. Somewhere inside, someone yells and glass shatters, but out here it’s just us and the alcohol that carries us away.