Wine at 3 AM

3:47 AM. August sat up in bed watching the clock on his phone as it rolled over to 3:48. Then, he sighed and glanced at the door. From under it, he could see a sliver of light, undisturbed by passersby. He was the only person in the dorm room. His roommate, Cameron, had left at around 10 PM that night. All he’d said was, “Julian called. Be back later.” God only knew where that depressed pot-lover he called a boyfriend had taken him this time. He was usually back by midnight. His prolonged disappearance made August restless. There wasn’t much of a reason, but whenever Julian was involved, the Dane couldn’t help but have a bad feeling.
           It wasn’t as if Cameron couldn’t defend himself. The writer was only a little bigger than August, but much larger than Julian. It wasn’t Cameron’s safety that concerned the Dane. What it was, then, he didn’t know. Regardless, he couldn’t sleep until the writer returned.
           3:49. August sighed again.
           Where is he? He wondered. Should I go look for him? No, what’s the use in that? I don’t have a clue where Julian could’ve taken him.
          He assumed it was to some sort of party, but the location was unknown to him. When it came to campus parties, the Dane was far out of the loop. Everyone knew he’d much rather stay in his room and study, so no one ever told him about such events. Though, why whatever event they’d gone to hadn’t been postponed a week, he wasn’t sure. Wouldn’t a Halloween party be better than an “October 24^th” party?
           At 3:50 on the dot, the sound of two sets of footsteps in the hallway earned a twitch from August. He turned his screen off, setting the phone down on the nightstand, next to the lamp. Then, he listened as hard as he could, trying to make out what was being said outside.
           Cameron’s voice was the first one he heard. The sound of it alone brought his nerves tremendous ease. “Will you be all right on your own for the night?”
           “I think so,” came the mumbled response from Julian, which August almost couldn’t make out.
           “You sure?” There was a degree of playful flirtation in the writer’s voice that made August roll his eyes. He zoned out the rest of the conversation, preferring instead to lie down and pull his blanket over his head.
           He wasn’t sure why he hated their relationship so much. Gay relationships were fine to him. Besides, he was happy that Cameron was happy. But Julian . . . Ugh, Julian. Did he hate the kid so much that the thought of Cameron wasting time on him bothered him? What was there to hate? If he removed Cameron from the equation, there wasn’t much. Only that he skipped his classes to sulk in his own dorm room, down the hall from theirs, which he had to himself. August wouldn’t wish rooming with the scrawny stoner on his worst enemy.
           Imagine the smell? Man, am I glad he’s at least down the hall. I could do with him being farther away, though.
          When the door opened, August tensed under the covers. He tried to pretend he was asleep as he heard Cameron close and lock the door behind himself. His footsteps then stepped further into the room, approaching the nightstand. There was the distinct sound of plastic rustling—a bag he was holding? The lamp clicked on; August tried not to flinch at the sudden light that seeped through the blanket. He could make out no more than the dark blur of Cameron as he lounged on his own bed, parallel to August’s.
           Did he even remove his shoes? Why’s he just sitting there?
          There were a few beats where nothing happened. More or less blind, it was impossible for August to know if Cameron was even still on the bed. The dark shape hadn’t moved, though, so he figured it was a safe bet he was.
           What’s he waiting for?
          “I know you’re still awake,” Cameron said out of the blue.
           For a couple seconds more, August stayed still. But when Cameron did nothing, he decided to come clean, lifting the blanket off his head and tossing it down past his chest.
           “How did you know?” he asked.
           “You breathe heavy when you sleep,” answered the writer without as much as a glance.
           “Do I snore?”
           “No. Just . . . breathe.”
           August perched himself up on his elbow. “You don’t sound like you’re in a good mood. Did something happen?”
           Cameron was silent. In a slow, fluid movement, he cocked his head to the side to match the Dane’s anxious, green-eyed gaze. There was mischief in his own of dark caramel, but also in the faint smirk on his dark lips.
           “No,” he answered. The way he still sounded bitter was enough of a hint for August.
           “Oh. I see. You wanted to— . . . ?”
           Cameron whipped his head back toward the door. “Never mind it. It’s nothing.”
           August mimicked him, only slower. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know what you see in him.”
           “Forget it.” The writer moved his legs off of his bed, now sitting facing the Dane. In his left hand, he held a black plastic bag. “Let’s party.”
           “Huh?” August raised a brow, an awkward smile creeping across his face. “What do you mean? It’s half-past three in the morning, Cameron. I hardly think anyone is partying anymore.”
           “You’d be surprised.”
           August laughed a bit as he stared at Cameron. He expected the man to crack and give some sign that he was kidding. Instead, though, the writer’s smug poker face remained perfectly intact.
           Is he serious?
          The prolonged eye contact made the Dane nervous, so he looked away with a smaller laugh. “Nah,” he stammered, “I don’t think so. You know me, Cam; I’m not quite the ‘party’ type.”
           Cameron reached into the bag. From it, the first thing he pulled was a black bottle. Upon closer inspection, August realized it was—
           “Wine,” said Cameron.
           The grin August made was one of bewilderment. Despite his obvious confusion, though, the writer said nothing more. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you have a bottle of wine?”
           “Well, the party might be over, but I didn’t want you to feel left out.”
           “Are you high on something right now?”
           Cameron, amused, shook his head and set the wine bottle down on his side of the nightstand. He emptied the bag, revealing two wine glasses wrapped in brown paper. After tossing the paper into his trash bin and setting the glasses down on the stand as well, he picked up the bottle and twisted off its cap. It wasn’t until he started pouring a second glass that August spoke up.
           “Oh, Cam, no. I shouldn’t.”
           Regardless, Cameron stood and extended a glass toward him. August stared at it—at the dark red liquid sitting still inside—then at Cameron. The writer motioned for him to take it.
           “Come on,” he urged. “Don’t make me finish the bottle alone.”
           With a defeated huff, August draped his legs over the side of his bed and accepted the glass. “Who drinks at three in the morning?” He grumbled.
           Cameron sat back down. “Alcoholics and college students, my friend.”
           “Are we one or both?” joked the Dane.
           “Let’s drink and find out.” Cameron winked.
           August laughed, but then gazed down into his own glass. He didn’t want to say it, but he felt anxious; he’d never drank alcohol before, never mind bitter wine. What if he embarrassed himself?
           “Hey.”
           Cameron’s voice got his attention. When he looked up, he saw the writer holding his glass out, proposing a toast.
           “Do you trust me, August?” he asked.
           August took a deep breath and smiled. “Despite everything,” he responded, light-hearted, “yeah.” He held out his own glass, clinking it against Cameron’s.
           All right, come on. It can’t be that bad. Let’s get this over with.
          They both tilted their heads back and started to drink. August pinched his eyes shut as he gulped down the wine in his glass. Once there was nothing left in the cup, he looked down, mouth still full, as he tried to swallow it. Upon doing so, his eyes fell upon Cameron, who was staring at him with his own expression of bewilderment. His portion of wine looked unchanged.
           “Mm!” August forced himself to swallow the bittersweet nectar he’d sucked from the cup. “You didn’t drink!”
           For a beat, Cameron only stared. Then, he said, “Um. Wow. I’m . . . impressed, to be honest. Never, uh . . .” He glanced at the bottle. “. . . seen someone chug wine like that before.” He reached for the bottle, but then curled his hand into a fist, seeming to reconsider. “Maybe I . . . shouldn’t give you anymore.”
           August couldn’t help but snicker. “I’ve never seen you so flustered!”
           “Well, I’m speechless!” Cameron laughed. “I didn’t expect that. It takes a lot to surprise me, so . . . kudos?” Though he smiled at August, it almost looked like he was a bit worried.
           “Don’t worry, I don’t want anymore,” August said in an attempt to soothe him. “That was awful.”
           Cameron, awkward for once, only let out a brief, stifled snicker. He held up his own glass. “I’d chug mine,” he said, “but, y’know, I, uh . . . don’t want a hangover.” Then he cleared his throat, composing himself in an instant. “Anyway. Let’s talk.”
           “Is this what you do at parties?”
           “Pretty much. It’s rather boring.”
           August found himself raising a brow again. “Boring? Then why do you go?”
           Cameron shrugged. “To unwind, I guess. Plus, it gives me an excuse to spend time with Julian.” He watched the Dane’s near-autonomous response to hearing his boyfriend’s name. “You know, you rolling your eyes when I mention Julian is as reliable as the sun rising in the morning. What is it you have against him, anyway?” It was a serious question, but asked in a casual tone that gave it the impression of simple curiosity rather than a demand.
           The Dane shrugged his shoulders. “Believe me: if I knew, I’d tell you. Something about him rubs me the wrong way somehow.”
           “Is it the marijuana?”
           “It could be. I’m not sure.”
           “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never smoked with him,” he revealed. “I mean, I’ve thought about it, but it’s more interesting to study its effects on him than try it myself, you know? Cigarettes are better, anyway.”
           “Are you still smoking those?” August inquired. “I thought you quit.”
           “Eh, well, you know . . .” Cameron sloshed the wine in his glass. “Old habits die hard.”
           “Old habits? You’re twenty-two.”
           The writer made a high-pitched groan, earning a laugh from the Dane. At the sound, he smirked. Then, he asked, “That wine hitting you yet?”
           August snapped his mouth shut. Should I be able to tell? I guess I’d be able to if I’d ever been drunk before . . .
          “August?”
           “Um . . . Yeah. Sure.”
           Cameron blinked.
           “I know the feeling.”
           “You don’t. You’ve never drank before.”
           “How do you know that?”
           “Well, for one, you chugged wine.”
           August squirmed. “All right. Touché.”
           Cameron didn’t seem to judge him, though. He only beamed at him, handsome face lit up with friendliness. “It’ll probably hit you all at once,” he advised. “Don’t panic if you feel dizzy all of a sudden.”
           “I can handle it,” August boasted.
           “I don’t think you can. This wine’s . . . stronger than most.”
           The pause made the Dane feel a bit suspicious. Before he could dwell on it too long, though, as if cued, a sudden wave of light-headedness hit him. He felt sedated. In an attempt to work through it, he shook his head, but that only made his vision double somewhat.
           “Oh,” he mumbled. “Okay, you might be right. I’m, uh . . . oh.”
           “Hitting you hard, huh?”
           “Yep.”
           “I can tell.” Cameron stood up and headed toward the door. He started slipping off his shoes. Then, off went his dark brown leather coat; he hung it up next to one of August’s. Meanwhile, the Dane wobbled a bit and placed a hand on his head. Alongside the dizziness, he’d developed a bit of a headache.
           Is this what being drunk feels like? It’s way too intense . . . I only drank a cup!
          As Cameron stepped back into the room, August asked him, slurring his words: “What was in that wine?”
           The writer tilted his head like a confused puppy. “I don’t know what you mean.”
           “I feel . . . real weird . . .”
           “You must be a light-weight.”
           “Mmn . . .” August tried shaking his head again, but only managed to sluggishly drag it from side to side. “F-feel . . . tranqed . . .”
           Cameron hummed in response. “Shouldn’t have drank so much.” He reached down and grabbed August’s legs, moved them up onto the bed.
           “What are you— . . . ?”
           The writer clambered onto the bed, over August’s legs. This made the Dane move to stop him, but he fell onto his back when Cameron gave his chest a gentle shove.
           “Lie down, August,” he husked.
           “What’re you doing?” slurred the Dane.
           His arms were the only things holding him above August as he stared down at him. The Dane gazed back, unsure of what to do. Could he do anything? It was so hard to move . . .
           “When’s your birthday?” Cameron asked as he ran his fingers across August’s cheek.
           The blond started to giggle, almost against his own will. “What? What’re you asking that for? You keep asking . . .”
           “And you’ve yet to answer.”
           “I keep tellin’ ya, it . . . it doesn’t matter . . .”
           Cameron trailed his fingers up over August’s gullet. It felt good; his neck arched into it for more on its own. Then he grabbed his chin and used it to tilt his head to the side. The writer’s slippery tongue suddenly licked his right cheek. It was quick, but to August’s surprise, it felt even better.
           What’s going on . . . ? What did he give me . . . ? He felt a small flutter of fear. Did he drug me . . . ?
          “What was in that wine . . . ?” August moaned again as Cameron gave his cheek small pecks. He giggled as if the kisses tickled him. “Cut it out, Cam . . .”
           “Your birthday,” Cameron repeated. “I’ll stop if you tell me when it is.”
           “Why’s it so important . . . ?” That was the wrong answer, as the dark-skinned writer then centered his licks on the ridges of August’s ear. “Mmn, Cameron, nn . . .”
           I can’t move . . . Getting hard to think, too . . .
          A few gentle smacks on his other cheek made him open his eyes again.
           “Hey,” said Cameron, “don’t fall asleep on me yet. Tell me your birthday.”
           August wasn’t listening anymore. In his half-conscious haze, he took in the sight of Cameron’s face. He looked divine, like his guardian angel. He’d never noticed before how attractive he was—how attractive he found him to be. The thought had always been locked away behind inhibition. Whatever Cameron had given him got rid of that, though. All at once, he was infatuated with the writer. Despite his grogginess, he knew he’d at least remember this face in front of him, forever. What he couldn’t tell was whether that would be a good thing.
           “Hmph.” Cameron slumped his arms against August’s chest and pouted, holding his face up in one of his own hands. “If I’d known you were going to chug the damn thing, I only would’ve given you half a glass. Doubt you’ll remember anything from this point on. What to do, what do to?” He smirked at the Dane, tapped his nose as if he were a child. “I could do anything I want to you right now, you know? Anything I want,” he repeated, “and you’d like it.”
           August was only capable of a small moan in the back of his throat.
            With a suggestive firmness, he danced his fingers across the Dane’s chest. “I could even fuck you, if I wanted to. If I drank, too, neither of us would remember a thing in the morning.” Their eyes met, but with his blurry vision, August didn’t notice. The writer leaned in closer. His hot breath splashed against the Dane’s mouth as he whispered, with a hint of playful malice, “Do you trust me, August?”