Clusterfuck

vi

Toby laughs with Leo, and it's not even fake laughter. But he thinks—knows—that they're probably laughing for two different reasons. Leo probably thinks this is a silly little coincidence, but Toby—

Toby thinks he might be going crazy.

Leo hadn't been there when Toby walked in. Right? Of course not, because he would have noticed him and walked right back out. He would be home right now if that was the case, asleep in his bed, not having an existential crisis. No, Toby is sure of it; he'd entered the house, scanned the room, taken in every face, and Leo's—Leo's very attractive, very unforgettable face—wasn't among them.

Toby thinks this has to be a joke. This has to be a joke. Or maybe he's drunker than he thinks he is, and it's a hallucination. He's about to settle on that, about to decide that yes, that's probably it, when a wormhole so massive smacks him right in the face. He actually stumbles in place when it does, clutching onto the moderator's arm to keep him stable. (She's quick to shake him off.)

The bathroom.

There had been a person in the bathroom when he walked in, who he didn't pay any mind to when they sat back down, because he didn't think he'd have to. Is this what he gets for assuming he was off the hook for one night? One fucking night?

Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

"Small world," Leo whispers, smirking. Fuck him too.

Toby can't summon his voice to respond, so he nods tightly instead.

The game moderator shoos them away, and Toby sits as far away from Leo as he can possibly manage. His chest feels tight, and his heart is beating just as fast—if not faster—when there doesn't feel like there's enough room in his chest for it to do so, and it hurts.

But also. Holy shit.

He just made out with Leo, last name unknown, his partner for the calculus project, the guy who'd winked at him multiple times today, who Toby found himself frustratingly drawn to, who is hot and smart and cute. And yes, this seven minutes in limbo shit, it was just a game. It didn't really mean anything. Leo tasted like fire, and the one main rule of fire is not to touch it, not to go poking around it, especially if you've already done it once and know how bad it can hurt. But this burn that Toby feels in his face, in his lips, in his chest, is... it's...

It's scary and it's mindfucking and it's addictive.

The game ends, for everyone, at some point. Toby's not sure when, not sure how many seven minute increments float by. He doesn't know if he wants to get drunk again, maybe even drink himself to sleep, or just go home.

Reggie ends up making that decision for him when he pretty much collapses into Vicki's arms later into the night, completely hammered, knocked out cold. It's around two in the morning now, and Toby feels a headache coming on as the final blissful effects of the beers he drank fade  and he grows increasingly more delirious by the second, longing for sleep. So he seizes the opportunity to escape, wraps an arm around Reggie's torso and, with Vicki's help, lugs him out to his car. Damn, it's cold outside.

He feels like a parent as he buckles Reg into his seat, trying not to wake him up, but not caring all that much to maneuver himself around in utter silence. If Reg woke up before they got home, that would be great for Toby and his lack of useful muscle anyway.

It's so fucking cold outside, and all Toby wants is to climb into his car and make the measly little five minute drive to his apartment so he can collapse in his bed and sleep for twelve hours. That's all he wants.

He's so close to making that dream a reality—his hand is literally on the door handle to the driver's seat—but then there's another hand curling around the bend of his elbow and tugging him backwards a few steps, away from the light. Jordan, he assumes blindly, but when he turns around—well. Three guesses as to who it actually is.