The long period of time in which alcohol affects you is astounding.
Dante always looked at it as: if you get drunk, that's a full twenty-four hours down the drain.
There's the initial experience that hits like fire spreading across brush, swallowing the hillside up. It burns. Everywhere. In the back of your throat. The pit of your stomach. Underneath your veins as it threads through your blood stream. Alcohol is liquid fire, both metaphorically and literally.
Then there's the after-math, the charred remains of brush that crumbled under a simple touch. The terrible hang-over-from-hell morning. Puke, probably. Excruciating headache, definitely. Everything sounds too loud, like the volume's been turned way up. Your muscles ache. Your bones ache. You'll crave nothing for the next four hours but rest, water, and aspirin. Greasy food tastes like heaven—but seventy-five percent of the time your stomach will retreat in horror just from the suggestion, alone.
And somewhere in this huge mess is the in between.
That grueling moment that every experienced drunk faces, waking to a dark hour and a dark room, with only slightly better focus than just an hour or so before. Only half drunk, teetering on the edge, more sensible but still pretty dazed.
Here's the scene now: Dante waking to a couch that's fairly familiar by now, blinking owlishly at the only source of light streaming through the small basement window. The moon stared back, half carved out like a Cheshire Cat smile.
More blinking, trying to recall how he ended up here. The night faded in and out, whereas drugs have the power to conceive frighteningly clear flash-backs the day after—alcohol was never a sure thing, always tinged with a hazy quality. Always. His entire life was tinged with a hazy quality.
But Dante couldn't quite get a focus on the situation, he was still fading in and out, tried to remember if he had smoked a bowl or not, because, seriously, he doesn't remember ever fading this much on anything other than a dime and a self made bong hidden under his bed.
"How ya feeling?" The voice startled him, it probably shouldn't have, considering where he was—but it did. "Gonna puke?"
No, the first wave of nausea had resided…and the second wasn't due until daylight. He was good for now, however groggy Dante seriously felt at that moment. A shake of his head, then, "What time is it?"
"Four oh nine." Figures. Still a couple hours till sunrise. The hang-over hasn't even set in yet and he thought he might still feel a little drunk.
Dante tried lifting his body—only to fall back onto the ratty old couch with a grunt. Fuck, well, seems like his muscles were already aching, and with the alcohol half gone—the pain was only highlighted. Nero crawled over from his place on the rug, looking almost worried. "You alright?"
"Yeah. But how—how the hell did we end up in your basement?"
A shrug. "It was mostly me half dragging you out of one of the trendiest clubs in LA. And, you somehow managing to consume half the alcohol at their main bar. That was quite a feat, I'm surprised you haven't turned into a vegetable yet."
"Why?"
Nero blinked at the sudden question, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, each of them shaded in with the silver glow of moonlight. "Why what?"
"Why do you put up with me?" He clarified.
Swiftly, Nero said, "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because," He gestured. To what—he wasn't sure. To everything, probably. To all the fake bullshit, all the mindless partying and every time he has to be dragged from some place in a drunken tantrum. The all consuming question of why. "Of this. Of all of this. Of me. I'm fucked up. This entire situation is fucked up. Why would you even put up with any of it?"
"You say that like I don't already know."
"Then why?" He pressed on. Why. The big Why, again. What if there wasn't really an answer? To any of this. What if there is no ultimate Why—it just simply is? He hoped there was, though. He hoped this wasn't all just pointless. He hoped that teenagers didn't actually do things like this simply because they really were all unintelligent, thrill seeking, apathetic, bundle of nerves.
"Because—because…be…" Dante watched the explanation die, watched it explode all over his best friend's face. Watched the nervous mannerism's come to life again, nose rubbing, lip twitching.
And suddenly—nothing mattered.
Nothing but the lips that sharply surged forward onto his. Nothing but the small exhales of a red nose hitting his face. Nothing but Nero—here and right now.
His brain told him to kiss back, so he did, hesitant pressure at first, then slowly evolving into confidence. Dante kissed many girls before—too many, he thought, and wished they'd never existed in the first place—but everything paled in comparison to this. So many differences, so, so many. Where a girl's lips were submissive and soft and always tasted fruity—a boy's lips were rough, demanding, and not afraid to take dominance.
That was weird, adjusting to the whole dominance issue. Clearly, Nero had the control here and—and did that make him the girl? What does that mean, exactly? He'll be taking it up the ass? He'll be parading around on Nero's arm? Wearing long summer dresses like a good little house wife? Wait. That's stupid. They're both boys, clearly. Neither of them had to choose. Though, how exactly did that work? A relationship without boy-girl dominance? Huh?
But, he really didn't have time to ask such pressing questions because he was fading again.
Fading out and fading in to find them heavily making out, tongues slithering, rubbing, spit coating lips, tastes mingling. (Vaguely, he noted there was still a hint of vomit on his breath. Christ.) Hands were roaming all over the place and Nero was on top of him now, pressing all of his weight onto Dante's hips, the pressure almost painful. His hands were dragging up the back of Nero's shirt, skin hot underneath as his fingertips pressed against the boy's spine. Nero took that as permission for his own hands to slip under the other's shirt, sliding up and down his sides, leaving behind trails of fire.
Fade out.
Fade in.
They're both completely shirt-less by now, progressing from heavy petting to full on groping. Grinding in ways that were utterly sinful. And his nipples—fuck, when had those become so sensitive? Two fingers were encircling one, around and around until a pinch where he let out an unmanly squeak. This was quickly followed by a tongue spreading over the abused spot, in apology. That earned a loud moan. Christ, but who moaned except athletes, porn stars or slutty chicks that tried too hard? And yet, the moaning continued, hands grasping tight bunches of hair as his breathing became more erratic by the second.
Fade out.
Fade in.
Clothes were shed, only their boxers remained. And now they were both moaning-apparently they fell into the athelete porn star slutty chick category. But Dante was too far gone to care at this point, still half drunk, making everything heightened—every touch sensitive. Clearly this is an insane situation, the back of his mind still argued, clearly this is only making every question more intricate than they really have to be. But the front of his mind was still screaming yes and shut the fuck up and yesyesyes. Dante decided the front of his mind had a much better argument. Yes, much better, he concluded when their boxers were slipped off and went flying somewhere across the room.
Fade out.
Fade in.
It was skin on skin now. So much heat, even in the middle of March. So much fire spreading faster than any alcohol ever could. Quick fixes. That's all they ever were, stupid quick fixes for long term problems. All those parties, drink after drink, trying to fill that unmanly void in the pit of his stomach. Quick fixes were nothing compared to what was happening right now. Two fingers pressing inside him, squirming around in time with him, moans and presses, all at the same time.
This—this was real.
The touches. The feeling. It was bursting inside of him. Exploding. His entire body screamed touch me. Touchmeplease.
Fade out.
Fade in.
Sex. If you would've asked him yesterday he would've said it felt good, something he did to get off, never really thought highly of the act, never really saw the need to. Sweaty, faceless, ways to get your rocks to the moon.
But now—now he understood.
Holy fuck did he understand. Clarity. Intensity. At this point he didn't care if he was the goddamn girl in the relationship or not, would gladly take it up the ass with a fucking shit-eating grin on his face. Because, shit, yeah it stung, felt like daggers at first. But Nero kept whispering, kept saying things those other girls never did, kept saying, "I love you. I love you so fucking much," over and over like a mantra. And Dante kept whispering it back or…well, he was whispering something, hoped it was reciprocation, at least.
Then, something was hit and it's like that burning had turned into fucking fireworks. He was seeing stars. And…ah. Nothing has ever felt this good in his life, just simple rocking, a large boy hand touching him intimately, almost completely sober but the clarity made everything that much better.
And somewhere down the line he was brought past the second star to the right and straight on till morning.
Ah.
He only faded one more time that night. Fading out post orgasm, confused as ever.
Fading back in with 'I love you' on the tip of his tongue and the sudden realization to what's been missing in his life.