Wyatt and Pierce migrated to the kitchen, finding Blake taking body shots off a gymnast.
The top of the cabinets were lined with empty Fireball whiskey bottles, like each one was an accomplishment. The counters were splattered with suspicious substances - some spots were luminescent, like maybe someone had cracked a glow stick. The neon splotches were accompanied by grossly-crusted globs of old chili and, of course, sticky drops of Monster Energy. The mess made Pierce feel comfortable, but he grinned to himself, thinking of what Elliot would say about the disgusting scene.
Wyatt found some unopened beers and handed one to Pierce. Blake abandoned the gymnast to greet them, opting to sit on a nearby trashcan. He looked slimy with sweat or liquor - Pierce wasn't really inclined to ask which. Instead, he grabbed him a can of Busch Light and grimaced as he watched him wipe his dripping forehead. He was just grateful he didn't bring his guitar.
The backdoor was propped open, but Pierce couldn't feel the breeze. Within the congested area, he could only feel the thick mixture of muggy heat and bad breath. There were so many people in the small kitchen that the collective weight of the group had made the floor concave. If he had set a penny next to his shoe, it would've rolled toward the middle of the room. It was probably a safety hazard, along with the unplugged smoke detectors.
"PIERCE," Nicki blurted, like a gossip reporter.
"I thought she was upstairs," Wyatt muttered, annoyed.
Most appropriately, she strutted down the red-carpeted hallway - a superstar in the wrong city. The fibrous flooring had faded into a dirty mauve-like shade, unlike Nicki's attitude. She was vibrant, commanding the room with a single step and a thrifted denim skirt. Pierce wished Elliot was by his side, so he could whisper a compliment and have him say it out loud. He wouldn't want his kindness mistaken for flirting - because hockey jocks rarely commented on a girl's clothing unless they wanted to take it off.
"Hey, Nicki," Blake greeted, trying to be smooth. He didn't look at her, though. His focus was stolen by the pixels of his phone, with his thumbs feverishly typing something on the virtual keyboard. "Can't talk. Got a discussion post due at midnight...Does anyone know what an oligarchy is?"
"The British version of Olive Garden," Wyatt falsified, blatantly sabotaging his teammate's grade.
Blake's eyebrows went taunt, asking himself how a restaurant franchise applied to his political science class.
Nicki tried not to notice him or his body odor. "Come here," she requested, ushering Pierce toward her until they both fit into the tiny square on her phone screen. "Smile." The moment was captured with a click. She added a hashtag and told him, "We need to get a picture of you and Elliot before you leave, okay?"
"Uh - "
"Great," she beamed. "I'll be back. Don't leave." And then she was gone as fast as she had arrived.
"Bye Nicki," Blake trilled. He let out a burp once she had left the room. "What the hell was that?"
"Haven't you checked Twitter?" Wyatt asked. "Pierce is in love with Elliot."
Blake stared at him blankly, bored. "Who?"
"Dude with blue hair," Wyatt said.
Pierce wrung the nape of his neck, a bit awkward. "Our video went viral."
"And now a bunch of teenage girls are convinced they're dating," Wyatt explained.
Blake howled a laugh. "That's fucked, man."
Pierce huffed, trying to ignore the gossip. He hadn't even talked to Elliot about it yet. "Yeah."
"You're not gay," Blake stated, like it was an obvious fact. As if gay was a tangible characteristic.
"But if you were," Wyatt added - halfheartedly. "We'd support you."
"Eh," Blake teetered. "Don't sign me up for skating around the rink with a rainbow hockey stick. That's Wyatt's thing."
Wyatt punched his arm, but not hard enough - a not-so-gentle reminder that his sister was a lesbian.
"I'm not gay," Pierce said defensively. He took a swig of beer, letting the carbonation prickle his throat so he wouldn't have to acknowledge the already-emergent stinging sensation. He wiggled his nose to distract his tear ducts. "And I have no interest in being a poster boy for the gay agenda."
Blake clicked his tongue. "Might want to tell Little Boy Blue before you break his heart." He leaned into Pierce, whispering, "They're sensitive you know."
"Shut up, man," Wyatt interjected. "You sound like an asshole."
"Some people like assholes," Blake quipped. "Isn't that the whole point of this conversation?"
Wyatt wanted to punch him again, but Karma had other plans.
As if the universe was listening, a frat guy tripped on a stray Wendy's bag and sent his drink flying toward the three boys. The liquor spewed out of the cup and splattered onto Blake's chest, spilling down his entire shirt.
"What the fuck?" Blake cursed, aiming his anger toward the clumsy college guy.
He mumbled an apology and sped toward the stairs, seemingly in a hurry. Running toward a hookup.
Blake was visibly upset, removing his damp shirt with a scowl. He balled it up and tried to dry himself. Wyatt only scuttled a laugh.
"Here. Take this," Pierce said, taking off his hoodie and offering it to Blake so he wouldn't be shirtless - not even hesitating to help. Blake appeared appreciative. Moving toward the exit, Pierce told his friends, "I'll be back. I need some air."