Would You Rather

15 - WYR: sleep in the tub or on the dining room table?

FINLEY

I wake up nauseous.

Moonshine is a fucking terrible idea, for your information.

I wake up nauseous and with my throbbing head pressed to someone's sweaty chest. Sweaty and they smell a bit like firework smoke. I blink my eyes open, finding myself eye-to-eye with Fidan Koskinen's nipple.

When I push myself upward a little, the room spins.

It takes quite a lot of effort to sit all the way, holding my stomach, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday– good God can NHL guys party– and definitely still wearing shoes.

Slowly, I turn to my side, Fidan's lanky body spread out under me, and Melissa curled up on the armchair across from us.

I blink, the room going fuzzy for a moment.

The first question that slowly develops in my hobble-tied brain is how the hell did I get back to my apartment?

And then the question is why am I not in my bed?

And then the question is who is throwing up in the bathroom?

I push myself upright, causing the snoring Finn under me to groan, and have to take a moment while standing to re-orient.

This is a morning that's only going to end in one way. Me in the bathroom with whoever is already in there.

When I finally cross the fifteen steps to get there, it takes twenty minutes and lots of stopping, I find Bronson sitting on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands.

"Morning," his voice is raw.

"How did we get back-" I hold up my hand, stopping to quell the sway in my stomach. "Here?"

He blinks, looking at me, "Uber."

"Thank God."

And then everything I've consumed in the last twelve hours makes a shining comeback.

Bronson holds my hair, rubbing my back when I finish throwing up. I give into the moment and his broad, dinner-plate hand, leaning my head against his knee.

"What happened with you?" He asks, the dark circles under his eyes are incredibly pronounced. "You normally don't drink like that."

"I dunno." I do know, but... it's not really something I want to talk about yet. Especially with Bronson, who has had his entire life planned out since he was four, is a child to middle class parents, and has almost a full scholarship based on merit.

I love him, but I... can't explain this.

He slouches against the sidewall of the bathroom, eyes glazing over just a bit. His warm thigh is soothing relief against my throbbing head. "Oh my God, I can't believe I slept in your tub."

"You slept in my tub?" I let my eyes slide shut. "That's a low. I at least got a couch."

"I think..." he frowns. "Um. I can't remember who is in your bed."

It's at that moment that one of our favorite roommates decides to make an appearance, crawling across the ground, thirty legs and thirty feet and ten centimeters of yellow-gray body.

"What. the fuck. Is that." Bronson picks his feet up off the ground and I barely even register it, leaning over and slapping the ground, feeling its body crush under my hand.

"Bart."

"Holy shit that was a huge herif. Mitä vittua," someone mumbles from the doorway behind me. I look up to find a very disheveled Fidan Koskinen. He mumbles a bunch more nonsense, pressing his hand into his forehead and sliding to the floor, staring at the toilet like he's going to need to fist fight it but really doesn't want to.