Drinking had three phases. The first one was the prologue, as he liked to call it. It was often boring, sometimes too long when the drinks served were light. It required conversation, sober conversation, something Raiden wasn't very good at; he could only talk to a limited number of people comfortably when sober—Rosemary, Kev, Courtney, which reminded him of the inadequacy he wasn't too fond of but characterized him. He didn't really mind having few friends, truth be told, and didn't care about what others thought of him, but when in a party, where conversation with total strangers was required, he crumbled apart a little; and although he wasn't incompetent by any means when it came to social interactions, alcohol sure helped him unwind and loose his tongue.

Then came Jack's favorite, which was actually being drunk. Body relaxed more and more with every shot of tequila and he felt lighthearted, his anxieties suddenly gone. He could interact almost normally with everyone around him. Almost, because his awkward, blunt sense of humor couldn't be fixed by all the booze in the world. Still, it was one of the few times he felt he could be just like everyone else, because no matter how much Kevin reassured him that he was only slightly more introverted than the average folk and only a little stiff, he knew he was only being kind. The reason he managed to be friends with him and the rest in the first place was because they were all so abnormally outgoing and amiable—because they basically chased him around until he didn't have a choice but to be their friend.

Then there was the third and final phase, his least favorite: The hangover. It was the reason why he wasn't a complete alcoholic, but rather only a social one. Sometimes he couldn't get out of bed, his head pounding with such intensity he would think he willingly let someone hit his head with a baseball bat, and it would only get worse if he tried to get up.

Or move at all.

Or blink.

Or think.

Or exist.

Sometimes it came with nausea, too, sometimes his eyes would burn, sometimes the slightest sigh would make his nerves stand on edge.

Like the sigh that graced the back of his shoulder.

His eyes snapped open.

What.

It was hard to focus his sight on one spot, but when he finally managed to, the first thing he saw was Kevin's bed in front of him, undone and messy, but there.

Good. That meant he was in his room.

That, however, didn't explain the hairy arm wrapped around his waist.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His brain started working frantically—He had heard of this, heard of it happening to other people, in movies, in books: Waking up in bed with a complete stranger after a night of drinking, with no clue of how they got there or what did they exactly do; having to deal with the consequences, the repercussions that mistake could have on their relationships, the risk of pregnancy…

Well. Not that he had to worry about that.

But there was still enough to worry about as it was, anyway. Did he use protection? Did guys use protection when doing it, even? What exactly did he do? And how the hell did it even happen? How did he let it happen? Did he even know this guy? Did he even like guys? Since when? He never really thought much about his sexuality; all his relationships had been with girls, and while he did get hit on by guys every once in a while due to them either being confused by his androgynous appearance or genuinely finding him attractive he didn't think much of it. However, going from neutral doubt to waking up in bed completely naked with a man was a bit too huge of a jump in his perception of himself to just take it in stride.

Neurons going at 500 miles per hour even though it felt like they could barely speed up to 30, a thousand answerless questions rose up and all with one objective: Keeping him from actually turning around and taking in exactly how badly he had fucked up. Best case scenario, the man was a stranger, someone who had picked him up (or whom he had picked up, hell if he knew—Raiden didn't feel like going back into the sexuality-questioning merry-go-round just yet) during the party. Worst case scenario, it was someone he knew, someone who went to class with him or went to the same club; though he couldn't really think of anyone he'd sleep with given the chance—

"… Ghr… Minha cabeça…"

No.

Jack squinted his eyes shut.

Maybe if he waited long enough he'd wake up. Maybe the person behind him would morph into someone else. Maybe Rosemary. They got along wonderfully, and he was pretty sure it could go further if given enough time.

"Ah."

Alright. Alright. Not Rose. Maybe he was asking for too much. He could settle with Courtney. She was cute, though her love for exotic, expensive cuisine would probably render him penniless in a month, if not sooner.

"Jack?"

Kevin.

Just. Just change into Kevin. He could deal with Kevin. They were friends for years, trusted each other, and he was fairly attractive—

"Heavy sleeper, eh? Maybe I should use my mouth to wake you up."

A tiger was fine. He'd settle for a tiger. He could wrestle a tiger, he could let it tear his throat apart—anything was better than—

"Should I kiss your ear? Your back? Or lower…?"

"DON'T TOUCH ME."

Raiden regretted dearly every single movement afterwards—Bolting off of his bed resulted in him falling unceremoniously on his ass in a whirlwind of sheets and pillows, subsequently hitting the back of his head with the nightstand nearby. He yelled in spite of himself, and though the voice he managed to painfully push out of his dry throat was hoarse and croaky, it was still loud enough to make his head hurt to the point of feeling dizzy. The only positive outcome of his overreaction was that Sam, still sitting on his bed, kept holding onto his head and cursing in Portuguese under his breath, head probably pounding just like his, punishment for a night of overindulgence.

"Ngh…" He laid back on the bed, voice strained and low, as if he were purring to calm his nerves down. "… Not a morning person, are you, Jack?"

"Sam."

He said his name as if still hoping the man on his bed would turn into something else, anything but goddamn Samuel Rodrigues. His face didn't transform though, and his lazy grin only got wider.

"Sam, what the hell."

"What? First time experiencing a hangover?" Jack didn't even dignify that question with a response and just glared, earning no more than a soft, rumbling laugh from the Brazilian. "Sometimes your head hurts. Sometimes you feel nausea. Sometimes you wake up with an extra body on the bed."

"How… why…"

"Hm. Good questions." He scratched his bearded chin absent-mindedly, not looking particularly interested in answering them. "Unfortunately, I can't remember much at the moment."

His gut reaction was yelling at him for being so damn useless, but it wasn't like he could remember much either.

It was just another party Courtney had dragged him to, he put together, grasping for little bits and pieces of memories wandering around in his head, because everyone else was too busy—Both Rose and Kevin were buried in work, the latter even going as far as telling Raiden he wasn't going to set a foot into the dorm until he finished his paper for Boris. And with no one else there to speak to once Courtney was dragged away by her girlfriends, he had looked for something to drink to at least try and have fun with the sea of strangers. He remembered lights, noises, voices, known and unknown. He remembered laughing, he remembered talking till his throat hurt, faces, or smiles, rather.

Then fighting.

Then an empty hall.

"Ugh."

He stopped fishing for memories for his brain's sake, throbbing joining the dull pain on the back of his head. That break didn't last long, though, the cogs in his brain turning again when he looked over at Sam, sprawled on his bed, also seemingly lost in thought. He was probably trying to figure out exactly what happened as well, but unlike the blonde, it wasn't something he was too worried over, fingers absent-mindedly burying themselves in his dark, thick hair.

Why Sam?

The Brazilian had arrived at Marshal University as an exchange student a few months ago, and since then, their relationship had been turbulent at best. The man had joined the Japanese martial arts club, claiming that his father owned a dojo back in Brazil that specialized in kenjutsu. Those claims were soon backed up by his ability with the bokken, and eventually, with a real katana he brought at their sensei's request, a fine Japanese blade inherited for generations through his family. Within a month Sam was deemed the most proficient swordsman in the club, and was even asked to assist his teacher by easing the new members into the arts of the sword.

Their quarrel hadn't begun because of his ability, though. While it was true Sam had taken his place as the most skilled in the group with surprising ease, he didn't particularly care—If anything, he was glad he finally had someone to have a decent match with. No, it had nothing to do with actual sword fighting, but ideals.

A month after Sam arrival, Raiden had stayed behind to chat with his teacher like every afternoon after practice about various things—Often Japanese culture, as they both passionately studied it in their spare time. Although he was usually the first one to leave, Sam had lagged behind as well that day, curious once his ear caught loose words and terms he was familiar with. It was only when the blonde started talking about Issatsu Tasho that he snorted loud enough for the two men to finally notice his presence, though, and Jack turned around to find a grin, wide and smug and a couple of eyes that seemed to smile just as mockingly.

It was their first clash and the only one they needed to permanently define their relationship as nothing but unpleasant.

Coming from a dojo that revolved around Satsujinken, Sam found ideas not only unrealistic, but naive, just like the low-budget, third rate Hollywood movies and fairy tales he probably took them out of. His words stung not only because of the mocking, degrading tone in them that only seemed accentuated by his blunt accent, but because they weren't far from the truth—Raiden's exposure to Kenjutsu and Japanese knowledge in general came from old Samurai movies and books, much different from growing surrounded by actual swordmasters like Sam.

They debated for the rest of the afternoon until it got dark, their Sensei looking thoroughly uncomfortable, worry intensifying in his face the more aggressive their tones got, both students getting more frustrated with each other every minute that passed; Because even though the Brazilian feigned cool amusement, his tense posture betrayed him and showed that Raiden's words did get to him somehow, or did at least hit some sort of sore spot.

Eventually, their ideological disagreement translated to their matches—The strength and speed held back when they dealt with rookies and other members of the club came fully in play when they dueled each other, matches so spectacular that even outsiders stayed behind to watch and cheer whenever one of them managed to strike the other down. So aggressive their matches got, that sometimes swords were discarded and they resorted to plain fist-fighting. It was often a poor decision for Raiden, as Sam easily beat him to the floor with grapples similar to the ones used in judo, using his heavy body to his advantage to keep the Liberian down until his rage subsided and he finally admitted defeat with a frustrated snarl. Then, as he loosened his grip on the blonde's wrists, he leaned close to his ear:

"Always nice to have you under me again, gatinho."

Then Raiden punched his face again before the Brazilian could even begin to react and the fight started anew, with cheers and jeers from the crowd.

Only when their sensei threatened to ban them both from the dojo did they stop their brawling—It was pointless, anyway, as after weeks of fighting, Raiden's skills got on par with Sam's and soon every match ended in a draw. Raiden did his best to completely avoid his rival then, growing tired of the bickering, but he could swear Sam found ways to cross paths with him anyway, encounters that would lead to nothing but exchanges of unpleasant remarks that kept the anger fresh.

The creaking of the bed brought Raiden out of his musings. Back in reality, Sam was somewhat more composed, or at least did a damn good job pretending he was as he sat up, yawned, then stretched lazily as if he were in his own comfortable bed. The man was stark naked, thin, red scratches down his back and near his hips telling a story that made a mix of dread and shame pool in the blonde's belly.

And then suddenly it hit him.

Sam was stark naked.

"Hey, cover yourself up, will you!?"

"Hm?" He turned to him and Raiden looked away, feeling ridiculously bashful all of a sudden. With raised eyebrows, Sam then looked down at his own body and made a sound of understanding. "Oh. Well, there really isn't much around here I can use for that. Unless you're planning to return those sheets and be naked yourself."

"Hell no." As if to reaffirm his point, he clung to the sheets and blankets like they were his armor, and he heard Sam chuckle. "Just find your goddamn clothes."

"What is the point? We saw more than enough of each other last night."

Raiden groaned at the reminder. Pushing aside whatever reservations he had, he forced himself to look at the other man in the eye again, as if he'd find the answer to the one question he wanted the answer to:

"'The hell happened last night?"

Sam shrugged, disinterested.

"It does not matter."

"What do you mean 'it doesn't matter'!? I don't know about you, but I'd actually like to know exactly how I ended up in this situation—Even more importantly, how I ended up in this situation with you out of all people." Sam let out an amused grunt.

"Am I somehow a special case that you care so much about that?"

"Oh yeah, you're special. Just not a good kind of special." Raiden replied with a roll of his eyes and the other chuckled, irritatingly relaxed.

"People have sex for many reasons, Jack. Usually, it is just because they find each other attractive—"

"Yeah right." He blurted out, then scoffed. "Attractive? We've never exactly been pining for each other, have we? I—Well, you know. You don't think of me that way and—"

Sam made a questioning noise and Raiden stopped in his tracks, lips tensing slightly before opening his mouth again.

"Wait, do you?"

The Brazilian made another sound, shrugged slightly, then smiled.

"You are very pretty."

Raiden spluttered and proceeded to roll his eyes to the other's sincere smile—Jackass was trying to get under his skin again, wasn't he? He was a damn expert at riling people up, so refusing to fall in his little game, he simply pretended he hadn't just heard that, not noticing how his hands pulled the sheets a little higher up his stomach.

"I remember fighting."

Raiden's head snapped up at Sam's words. He was looking thoughtfully up to the ceiling while his hands worked dark strands of hair into his usual ponytail.

"Yeah—Yeah, I do too. Not a clue why we were fighting, though."

"We rarely do have a reason." He chuckled, shrugging. "You're too quick to get angry, Jack."

"Maybe you're just too quick to be an asshole."

"See?" Then he shook his index finger in the blonde's direction. "Temper, temper."

"Don't give me that. You're as responsible as I am for every single fight we've had."

"Well… I will admit making you angry has become one of my favorite pastimes."

"That's nice. Ever tried knitting, instead? I heard it's relaxing and good for your nerves. Or at least I know It would be good for my nerves."

"You didn't think last night was relaxing? My nerves feel just fine thanks to you."

If moving didn't make him feel like vomiting his innards out, Raiden would've socked the smug grin off his face.

"How—How can you be so calm about this—Ugh." Moving forward was a bad idea. "What if someone saw us—Urk!" Moving backward was a bad idea. "Jesus. I'm never drinking again."

"Ah, I've heard that one before." Sam smiled, watching Raiden trying to find a position that wouldn't make him feel like death. "Also, I am calm because I do not care what people I don't know think of me."

"How about people who do know you?"

"I care even less." Sam yawned again, then shrugged. "I honestly do not see the problem. We are not the first nor will be the last to make less than smart choices when in a drunken stupor."

"This wasn't less than smart, Sam. This was undoubtedly the biggest mistake of my life."

"Ah, please, Jack. You're being… ay, how was it again? Ah—A drama queen."

"A drama queen." The blonde repeated, giving Sam a long, blank stare. "You sure you're not still drunk?"

"Unlike you, I don't need alcohol to gain a sense of humor."

Raiden gritted his teeth, but decided against starting yet another argument. What he needed was to get away from that guy as soon as possible and find someone sane to talk to. Hopefully that someone would have an aspirin, as well.

He tried standing up, only to fall back on his butt clumsily, his entire body screaming murder at the impact.

Screw aspirins, what he needed was morphine.

He made another attempt, and managed to stand on his own two legs that felt wobbly and weak like he had just run a marathon. Hand still firmly holding the sheets to his waist, he started fishing around the room for his clothes, and along those came a bunch of other questions. Why were his socks on the ceiling fan? How the hell did his pants end up under the night stand? Were those Kevin's briefs or Sam's?

"Those would be mine, thank you."

Raiden tried his best to not jump away from Sam like a frightened rabbit when he felt the taller man's voice rumble near his shoulder, one big hand coming to snatch the piece of clothing out of his grasp. Making a mental note to not turn at around until he heard the sound of a zipper or something similar, Raiden continued fishing for his clothes, bending down with difficulty to check over and under every single piece of furniture in the room. Each movement was accompanied by a grunt, a long string of grievances or simply, a heavy sigh, body aching all over.

"God, my ass hurts."

He said that to himself without thinking, figuring it was as harmless as all the other complaints he was muttering. When Sam let out a snort, though, he realized the implications of his own words.

"Shut up. Just shut—"

"I wanted to be gentler, you know." God, he could hear the enormous smile on his face. "But after you told me to 'stop bullshitting around' and 'fuck you raw' I had little choice."

"I—I did not…" Raiden's voice caught in his throat because for a moment, in a flash, he heard those words in his head with terrifying clarity. He shook his head desperately. "I—Stop making shit up!"

"I'm plenty of things, bonito. A liar isn't one of them." He chuckled when the blonde yanked the shoe he was holding in his hand, avoiding his eyes by all means necessary. "I suppose you do not remember you asking me to pull your hair, then?"

Oh god.

"You remember everything don't you!?"

"Only my favorite parts. Admittedly, there are still plenty of blanks in my head—If you want, we can just sit and reminisce, although I will have to ask you for a cup of coffee in exchange for my memories."

"I—Fuck you."

With the Brazilian's laughter behind him, Raiden stormed out with his shoes in his hands—Spending another second with that guy in the same room was going to drive him positively insane.

The cold winter wind entering through the hallway's windows hit him like a brick as soon as he stepped out the door, but it was refreshing nonetheless, and he took a second to inhale deeply, then exhale long and hard, as if trying to purge all the physical pain, discomfort and stress. It worked quite well, suddenly feeling better; though he wasn't quite sure if it was the fresh air or simply the fact he wasn't in the vicinity of Samuel Rodrigues.

…

Yeah, it was definitely the second one.

Whatever. He was feeling better with just that, so at least things were starting to look up.

Yes, up.

… He was freezing.

When he turned around, Sam's hand was already out, holding his jacket.

His head started pounding again.

Like hell things were looking up.