Newton’s Fourth Law Every Drink Has Consequences
Newton's Fourth Law: Every Drink Has Consequences
LEO
My mouth tastes like something crawled in and died. No… worse than that. Like something crawled in, died, decomposed, and then someone else came along and also died on top of the first corpse after crapping its guts out.
I peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth and immediately regret consciousness. Why did I drink last night? What possessed me to think alcohol was a good idea? I'm a physicist. I understand cause and effect. Action and reaction. Drink too much, wake up wanting to die.
The kitchen is bright. Too bright. Who decided on these overhead lights? Who thought that was acceptable? I squint against the assault and shuffle toward the table. There's a 96% chance I'm never drinking again. Okay, probably a 13% chance, but I'm not drinking again this month at least.
JP is already here. Of course, he is. Sitting with his first Americano of the day, in joggers and a plain white T-shirt, not a hair out of place. His hair is damp from a shower. He doesn't even have the decency to look tired.
"Morning," he says. I can only grunt as I collapse into a chair and put my head on the table.
"That bad?"
"My mouth tastes like a bog."
"Swamp mouth. Classic." I hear him take a sip. "Want coffee?"
"Please." He gets up without a word. The coffee maker hisses and gurgles. I keep my head down and try to convince my stomach that we're not, in fact, dying. A minute later, a mug appears in my line of vision. I lift my head just enough to wrap both hands around it.
"Thanks."
"Welcome." JP sits back down and studies me for a moment. "You were pretty quiet last night. After the dart games."
"Was I?" I take a sip. The coffee is hot, bitter, exactly what I need.
"You disappeared for a while."
"Needed air."
JP doesn't push. Never pushes. He just exists, patient and calm, until you're ready. The silence stretches, and I let it, turning the mug in my hands.
Except I don't know if I'm ready.
"I saw Max," I say finally. "At midnight. He was with Jaren." I stare into my coffee. "They kissed. I looked away, but I knew. I just… knew."
JP nods, but says nothing. My hands tighten around the mug. "It's good. Jaren seems nice. Max was happy." I hear myself saying it. "That's good."
"Is it?"
I look up. JP's watching me, gaze moving slowly across my face like he's reading something. Then his eyes drift past my shoulder, just for a second, unfocused, somewhere else entirely, and he gives one small nod, almost to himself. Then he's back, looking straight at me.
"Yeah," I say. "It is. Max deserves someone nice. Someone who isn't—" I stop. Start again. "Someone who isn't complicated."
"You think you're complicated?"
"I think I'm his best friend." The words come out sharper than JP deserves, so I swallow the snap back and try again calmly. "And some things are too important to fuck up over these feelings."
JP takes another sip of coffee and seems to consider what I said. "You told me a few weeks ago that you couldn't lose him," he says finally. "That it was too big a risk."
"Yeah."
"You still feel that way?"
Do I? My throat feels tight. Like someone's wrapped a rope around my neck and keeps twisting it.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "I do. Max, he's my best friend.
My best friend. We live together. He brings me to his home for the holidays.
Our entire lives are tangled up together.
If I… if we tried something, dating or… and it didn't work—" I can't finish the sentence.
JP nods slowly. "Max will always be your best friend."
There is a slight loosening in my throat, and I can swallow. Slightly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." His voice is gentle. Certain. "You two, you've got a friendship that doesn't break because of feelings. Even if things got weird, even if you tried dating and it didn't work, you'd figure it out. You always do."
I want to believe that. I really, really want to believe that.
"But," JP continues, and my stomach drops, "you're not going to try. Are you?"
"No." The word comes out flat. Final. "No, I'm not."
"Why not?"
"Because what if I'm wrong?" The confession bursts out of me, too loud in the quiet kitchen. "What if you're wrong? What if we try, and it's a disaster, and I lose the most important person in my life? What if—" I pause. "What if I fuck it all up?" I finish quietly.
JP doesn't answer immediately. He sits there, turning his mug in his hands. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "I think," he says, "that you're being smart. Mature. You're protecting what's important."
"Some things are too valuable to risk on a maybe."
He's looking at the kitchen door when he says it.
Not at me. There's something in that I'm not sure I'm supposed to see.
I leave it alone. Relief floods through me, physical and immediate, loosening something I didn't realize I'd been holding.
JP said it was okay to let it go. JP, who knows everything, who sees everything, who has never once steered me wrong, looked me in the eye and told me not to try.
So I don't have to. The decision is made. It's done.
I breathe out slowly, not noticing that he's still looking at the kitchen door.
"Right," I say. "Exactly. That's… exactly."
"Max will always be your best friend," JP repeats. "No matter what. That's not going anywhere."
"Right."
"And if he's happy with Jaren—"
"Then I'm happy for him." I take another sip of coffee. Force the words to sound true. "I am. I'm happy for him."
The kitchen door swings open. Elliot shuffles in, looking perfectly fine in dark joggers and a soft gray hoodie.
His hair is slightly mussed, but otherwise, he looks completely unaffected by last night.
"Morning." Elliot heads straight for the kettle, moving with the particular cruelty of someone who slept well.
"You look disgustingly well-rested." Even saying it hurts. My voice comes out wrong, scraped and low.
"I had two drinks and left at eleven. Some of us know our limits." He fills the kettle and glances over his shoulder with a small smile. "Not my fault you challenged half the frat to darts. I heard you won, though. That was impressive."
"You heard? How do you always know everything?"
Elliot's smile doesn't change. "I have my sources."
"Obviously." The kettle clicks on. He pulls down his favorite mug, plain white ceramic, no decoration, and leans against the counter while it boils. "How's the hangover?"
I grimace at my coffee. "I'm dying."
"You're not dying." He says it the way you'd correct a minor factual error.
JP snorts. I take another sip and try to remember why I thought matching Rex shot for shot at beer pong was a good idea. The kettle boils. Elliot makes his tea with precise movements, bag in, water poured, exactly three minutes steeping, probably counted in his head, then settles into his chair.
"So, good party?" he asks.
"Leo's having regrets," JP says. "About the darts and the drinking.” Elliot nods sympathetically and looks at me. I hold my coffee tighter, pretty much sinking my nose past the rim so that’s all I can smell. Not the tequila coming out of my pores.
JP sets down his mug. "Sooo. Max and Jaren." Casual. Like he's not watching me at all. My stomach twists, which does not help the hangover.
"They seemed good," JP continues. "Jaren's nice. Genuine. Asked good questions, actually listened." He wraps his hands around his mug. "Max seemed happy."
I stare into my coffee. "Good." Elliot is still watching me over the rim of his mug. Not saying anything. Just watching the way he does. "Good," I say again, quieter.
This time, when the kitchen door opens, it’s Del backing in with Luca clinging to his back like a miserable, cashmere-clad backpack. Del is radiating the same offensive energy as Elliot, bright-eyed, upright, fully functioning. Of course, he is.
Luca looks like he's regretting every life choice that led to this moment, which honestly, same.
His hair is styled because, even hungover, he maintains standards.
But his face is pale, and his glasses are slightly crooked.
When Del tries to set him down, his legs appear to have forgotten their primary function.
"Morning!" Del says cheerfully.
Luca makes a small, pained sound at the kitchen light.
"Why are you so loud?" Haru moans without lifting his head.
"I'm not loud, you're hungover." Del steers Luca to a chair with practiced ease.
"Sit down, Sexy.” Luca sits and immediately puts his head on the table next to Haru.
They make a matching pair of misery, and I feel a sudden, irrational kinship with both of them.
Everyone is fine except me and the two people with their heads on the table.
"This is inhumane," Luca mumbles into the wood. "Drinking should be illegal."
"I mean it this time."
"You said that last time too." Del's already at the cabinet, pulling down a glass, completely unbothered. There's something almost affectionate about how efficiently he does this, like he's done it before, like he'd do it every time without being asked.
Luca flips him off without lifting his head. Del grins and drops a kiss on top of it anyway.
"Want water or the sweet release of unconsciousness?"
"The second one."
"Water it is."
I watch Del move around the kitchen like he already lives here, humming quietly, and Luca tracking him with his eyes despite the misery.
There's a small smile on Luca's face that he's not bothering to hide.
I look back down at my coffee. They're disgustingly cute.
And I'm glad for them, I am, I just can't quite look at it right now. Even when one of them is dying.
"How are you so functional?" I ask Del.
"I'm a swimmer. I know how to hydrate." He sets a glass of water in front of Luca. "Drink."
Luca drinks, then makes a face like the water personally offended him. "Everything tastes wrong."
"That's called a hangover, Sexy."
"Don't call me sexy when I'm suffering."
"You're always my Sexy." Del drops into the chair next to him, nudging his shoulder. "Even when you're suffering. Especially when you're suffering, actually, you get this whole tragic poet thing going."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I'm considering it." But Luca's mouth is doing the tiny smile thing despite himself.
Haru lifts his head slightly and looks at them with one eye. "Kimochi warui. You two are gross."
"Thank you," Del says.
"That was not a compliment.”
"I'm taking it as one." Del is already reaching over to straighten Luca's glasses.
I hear him before I see him. Max's humming, some tune I don't recognize, easy and unselfconscious. Max appears in the doorway and heads straight for the pantry.
"Morning! Anyone want pancakes?"
"Only death," Haru moans into the table.
"Agreed," Luca says. "No food. Only death."
"I'll have some," JP says.
"Me too," Elliot adds.
"Cool." Max lines up ingredients on the counter. Flour, eggs, milk, protein powder, bananas. "I'm thinking protein pancakes. Optimal hangover recovery. Got the recipe from this robotics forum—"
"You got a recipe from a robotics forum?" I ask.
"Yeah, there's this whole thread about optimal nutrition for long coding sessions. Super useful." He's already cracking eggs into a bowl. "You want some?"
"Sure." He grins at me. That familiar Max grin that makes his whole face light up. My stomach twists again. He goes back to cooking, still humming. His phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at it, and his grin gets wider.
"Jaren," he says to no one in particular. "He's checking in. Making sure I survived."
"That's nice," Del says.
"Yeah." Max is typing with one hand, whisking with the other. "He's really nice. Like, genuinely nice, you know? Not… performing nice."
"Those are the best kind," Del agrees.
Luca makes a small sound of agreement, head still on the table.
Max sets his phone down and pours batter onto the griddle.
The kitchen fills with the smell of cooking pancakes.
I watch him move around the kitchen, comfortable and happy.
His phone buzzes occasionally, and he smiles every time.
This is good, I tell myself. Max is happy. This is what you want.
"Hey." Max looks over at me. "You okay? You're being quiet."
"I'm hungover."
"Ah." He flips a pancake. Perfect golden brown. "Yeah, you went pretty hard on those dart games. It was awesome, though. You destroyed them."
"Physics," I say again.
"Obviously." He plates the first batch and brings it to the table. Sets one in front of me. "Eat. You'll feel better."
"Thanks." He goes back for more. I look down at the pancake. It's perfectly made. Slightly crispy edges, fluffy center. Steam rising. My stomach is still questionable, but I take a bite. It's good. Of course, it's good. Max is weirdly competent at random things like the best hangover pancakes.
"So," Max says, bringing more plates. "What's everyone doing today?"
"Dying," Haru says.
"Continuing to die," Luca adds.
"I'm helping them die," Del says cheerfully.
Elliot sips his tea. "I have reading to catch up on."
"I'm doing nothing," JP says. "Absolutely nothing."
Max looks at me. "Leo”
"Uh." My brain is moving at approximately 12% capacity. "Nothing. Probably just… nothing."
Max accepts that with a nod, and I feel a small guilty twist that he does, that he doesn't push, doesn't notice, just lets it go. Or maybe he does notice and is being kind. With Max, sometimes it's hard to tell.
"Want to hang out later?" He sits down with his own plate. "Just us? We could work on that quantum mechanics problem set. Or watch something. Or just… hang out."
Just us. Like before. Something rolls through my stomach, and I go very still for a second, assessing. Is that… is that the tequila? I swallow carefully. Wait. No. Okay. I’m fine. I press whatever it actually is flat before it gets anywhere.
I'm hungover and emotionally wrung out, and the last thing I need is to sit here and feel things at Max while he eats pancakes.
But, just us, like before, normal, the way things are supposed to be.
That's what I want. That's exactly what I want.
I'm going to shove everything else down so far it forgets it exists, and I'm going to have a normal afternoon with my best friend.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Yeah, that sounds good."
He grins, bright and uncomplicated, and it's so Max that my stomach unknots slightly. "Cool. It's a plan."
He goes back to eating, checking his phone, and humming that tune.
I focus on my pancake and take another bite.
Across the table, JP catches my eye. There's a slight furrow between his brows, not quite a frown, but close.
His eyes narrow just a fraction, lips pressing thin for a second before he looks back down at his coffee.
I don't know what that means. I don't ask. Max will always be your best friend, JP's voice in my head, certain and steady. That's not going anywhere.
I take another bite. The pancake tastes like cardboard.
Has nothing to do with Max's cooking.