Collision Theory

Chapter 1: On the Assumption That the Universe Is Stable

"You know, there was a time, just before I started to study physical science, when astronomers thought that systems such as we have here in the solar system required a rare triple collision of stars"

—Murray Gell-Mann, Physicist

-☆-

'This is an awful idea,' he thought dimly, which did absolutely nothing to stop him.

A dizzying, unfocused heat that crept up his spine. It made it difficult to remember what he'd even been angry about in the first place. Fabric bunched in his fists, the press of intoxicating proximity, and the strange disorientation of being all too aware of himself and not aware enough.

Hands wandered with an infuriating sort of certainty, unhurried and entirely too sure of their welcome—

-☆-

Jesse woke up with the distinct impression that the universe had personally fucked him over.

Light stabbed through the thin gap in the curtains, sharp and cruel. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, a dull, persistent ache that suggested several poor life choices and at least one drink he definitely should not have accepted...maybe five. His mouth felt like someone had replaced his tongue with sandpaper and then left it out in the sun for good measure.

He groaned, rolling onto his side, and immediately regretted it.

The room smelled wrong.

Cheap vodka. Something sweet and floral. Heavy cologne. A hint of sweat and stale beer clinging to the air like condemnation. Jesse cracked one eye open and took stock of the damage.

A chair was tipped over. One shoe—not his shoe—sat on the windowsill, laces dangling like it had tried to make a break for freedom and failed. A few unconscious figures lay on the love seat or on the floor, covered in streamers.

His phone buzzed weakly somewhere under the duvet, vibrating itself into an early grave.

"Christ," he muttered, voice rough. His throat burned.

Jesse lay there for a moment, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to reconstruct the night before like a madman plotting escape.

...Right.

The party.

Someone's house off campus held a bash after a match—one of those rented places with sticky floors and furniture that had long since given up on dignity. Music loud enough to rattle teeth. Bodies everywhere. Heat. Laughter. Shouting over shouting. A cup pressed into his hand every time it was empty.

Short dress. Dark hair? Or maybe blonde. Honestly, it blurred. He remembered perfume—sweet, a bit overwhelming. Kissing, definitely. Her laugh against his mouth. Hands, somewhere between his shoulders and his waist. The rest... fuzzy.

There... had been a girl? Well, there had always been a girl. And it wouldn't be his first time getting head at a party that was more of a piss-up.

Jesse winced, more at the headache than the memory. He rolled onto his back and dragged an arm over his eyes.

This happened often. That wasn't news to anyone, least of all himself. He liked noise, liked the way attention came easily when he walked into a room at any kind of party. Perhaps even liked how simple things were when expectations were low, and drinks were strong.

-☆-

By the time he'd dragged himself back to the dorms, into his wrinkled uniform and stepped out into the corridor, the headache had settled into a tolerable throb—background noise rather than centre stage. He ran a hand through his dark hair, scowling faintly at his reflection in the glass panel by the stairs.