Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 2

"You all right there, Dalt?" Jordan asks from within the light but into the darkness.

"How—?" I ask, coughing, only managing a single word before my throat seizes up from dryness.

"You texted me," Jordan's voice answers the question that I mean to ask—I suppose that I must have texted the wrong person in my drunken stupor. "I thought it was a mistake, but then you called me, so I picked you up."

"What—?" I ask, only managing that much before having to clear my throat. I don't remember any of that at all. I can't remember even calling him and I certainly can't recall our conversation, nor anything up to the point before I woke up—and that's terrifying.

"I left you a bottle of water somewhere next to the bed. Shall I turn on the lights? Or hang on—I can get it." His figure joins me within the darkness of the room and helps me off the floor, setting me back down upon the bed. I can just barely see his figure reach past me, the crunch of plastic crinkling into the otherwise silent room. The crinkly plastic crunches again as he thrusts the water bottle into my chest and just below my chin. As I open it quickly and drink it thirstily, his figure sits down besides me and upon the bed. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"About what?" I ask, nearly choking. I lower the nearly empty bottle to my waist as I turn to face the dark figure.

"You don't remember?"

"No... tell anyone about what?"

"How much do you remember?"

"Nothing about texting you—nothing about calling you—and nothing at all about anything else up until the point that I woke up here."

"How convenient," he comments before sighing, loudly.

"Convenient?"

"For you, that is."

"What is it? Go on, spit it out," I say, growing impatient to the bones.

"All right, all right. Well, when you texted, I replied saying that you texted the wrong number. Then you called me, but I ignored it—hoping that you'd give up and call whoever your ride was supposed to be. After the third call, I gave up and answered. You told me you were so drunk that you couldn't even get up and you were just lying there next to your own vomit, and on the coldness of the ground. I told you to call your ride and all, but you told me where you were and begged me to come pick you up—and I mean begged."

"Right. I don't remember any of that, but go on—the important bit."

"You came out—"

"I did what now?" I ask, incredulously.

"You came out to me."

"Clearly, I was drunk out of my mind. I didn't—" I stop, the gravity of it all sinking in, along with the sinking realization that there might be more to the story—the fear that I might have said, or worse, done something more. "We didn't—"

"No—"

"Good—"

"No, we didn't, but—"

"But? Why is there a 'but'? But, what?" I ask, hardly believing my ears.

"You tried—" his voice starts to admit into the darkness between us.

"What do you mean I tried?" I clear my throat from the nervous anxiety clogging my vocal chords—perhaps, I really don't want to know.

"You pushed me onto my bed and started tearing at my pants—"

"Oh, for f—"

"But I managed to push you off—you're virtue's safe."