two young lovers and half-priced drinks

The walls were moving. Maybe. Or maybe Charlie was moving? He doesn’t know. He grips the neck of his beer bottle a little tighter, forcing himself to focus on the table in front of him. He realizes, passively, that he and Roderick are getting their asses kicked in beer pong. They had one cup left on their side, and to win they somehow needed to land the ball in five of their opponents’ cups. Needless to say, this is not happening. 

“You are so absolutely shit at this,” Roderick grumbles from somewhere in the vicinity of Charlie’s right ear. 

Swaying on his feet, Charlie giggles at his tone, throwing the ping pong ball about two feet away from the table onto the floor. “Oops.” 

“Dude, seriously, what the fuck,” Roderick groans. “You are drinking that last cup. I refuse to drink any more because of you being bad at this. I swear you might even be worse than Marcus.” 

Wait…Marcus. Charlie wants to see Marcus. Abruptly, he turns to Roderick, who suddenly is two people. He reaches out and pats Roderick’s cheek to try and figure out which one is him. Roderick rolls his eyes, just slightly, but he lets Charlie be affectionate, a testament to how much alcohol Roderick must have already had. 

Pulling Roderick a little closer, Charlie whispers like he has a secret, white-blond hair falling into his eyes as he tilts his head. “Where’s Marc?” 

Roderick laughs at that, nearly giggles, а sound that Charlie has rarely heard from him even when drunk. “I don’t know,” he whispers back. “Go find him and leave me alone.” 

Charlie pouts, setting the now-empty beer onto the table. “You love me. I know you do.” He squints. “Maybe…” 

“Guys,” Issac groans from the other side of the table. “Are you done? This is ridiculous.” He’s not nearly as drunk as Charlie and Roderick, and has seemingly retained his fine motor skills as he easily tosses the ball into the last cup. 

“I’m not fucking drinking that, bye,” Roderick says quickly, disappearing into one of the adjacent rooms and leaving Charlie at the table. Without thinking, Charlie lifts the solo cup and downs the shot, clumsily saluting Issac as he stumbles off. 

He’s not really sure where he might be in the house. It’s Vivi’s brother’s friend’s sister’s party, the only reason why Vivi is here tonight, and thus the only reason why Issac even entertained the prospect of playing beer pong with Charlie and Roderick. He thinks the parents are gone or something, and that’s why the whole house is dark and loud and sweaty. 

Charlie suddenly feels grumpy, pouty as he realizes that Marcus went somewhere without him, and probably left a while ago. He can’t remember that last time he saw him, just remembers the sound of his laugh as Charlie missed one of numerous throws. The music is all of a sudden too loud, some stupid Christina Aguilera song that Charlie hates, and he wants to see Marcus. Where would he go right now? 

Picking a random direction, he fights his heavy feet and drags himself into a room with a couch. He scans the room quickly, and Marcus is not in it. Some guy is sitting on the couch and Charlie thinks he recognizes him. Maybe. Dakota? Roderick’s friend? It’s hard to tell when everything is a little dark, a little too blurry. 

He wobbles over to the couch. Maybe-Dakota looks up at him, a weird expression on his face. “Whoa, dude,” he says, stabilizing Charlie slightly as he hovers over him. “You good?” 

Charlie nods. “Marcus,” he says, eloquently. “Where, um. Where is he?” 

“Um,” Dakota says. “Upstairs, maybe? Are you sure you don’t want help?” 

Charlie ignores him, opting for watching his feet carefully as he walks towards the battered wooden staircase. Everything in Wildedale is a little rundown and this house is no different. He runs his fingers softly over the cracks in the dark wood, gripping the banister tightly as he steps carefully up each stair. In potentially fifteen minutes or maybe an hour he makes it up the top of the staircase, and immediately slams into the door right across from him. It’s locked. 

He fumbles for the doorknob to his right, and flings it open. Startled, Marcus looks at him from the bed he’s sitting on, a joint dangling from his hand. 

“Marcus!” Charlie kicks the door shut and flops onto the bed, laying his head in Marcus’ lap. “Hi,” he says, looking up at Marcus’ smiling face. 

“Hey, dude,” Marcus replies, amused. He takes a long drag from the joint and Charlie watches the way his lips curl around it, the way the veins in his throat move. He passes it to someone else. Someone else? Oh. Charlie realizes that there are other people in the room, other people that Marcus was spending time with that weren’t him. Distantly, he thinks that there might be a problem with that line of thinking. He’s not really sure why but he thinks maybe in the morning he will know. He doesn’t really care, though. Not when Marcus’ legs are comfortable beneath his head and Marcus’ hand is warm in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. Charlie turns his head to the side and buries his face in Marcus’ shirt, inhaling the smell of his laundry detergent and something else that is distinctly Marcus. He hears someone else laugh, maybe, and Marcus hisses at them to be quiet. 

Marcus snakes a hand in between Charlie’s head and his own stomach, pushing Charlie’s hair off of his forehead and tilting his head back so they can look at each other. Marcus is hunching over, just slightly, and Charlie forgets again that there are other people in the room. 

“Can you breathe in there?” Marcus whispers, amused. His eyes are red, a bit unfocused. Charlie offhandedly wonders again why Marcus was in here smoking without him, instead of playing beer pong with him, Roderick, and Issac. 

Charlie gasps. “‘You left the band!” he says, accusingly. 

“What?” Marcus asks. “We had practice this morning. I was literally there. So were you?” 

Charlie closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No. Downstairs. Beer pong!” 

“You mean I didn’t play beer pong with you?” 

“It was band bonding,” Charlie yawns. “We were bonding and you didn’t come.” 

“Dude,” Marcus says. “You sleep in my room for like, half the week. Roderick and I are brothers and you see him every day. Issac is literally your cousin. I’m pretty sure we all bonded just fine.” 

Charlie rolls over in the opposite direction of Marcus, pulling his head out of reach. “No,” he says petulantly. “I was playing beer pong and I lost because you weren’t there and now the whole band is going to break up because you don’t love me and you left me downstairs.” 

Marcus starts laughing, loudly and uncontrolled, and Charlie feels even warmer than he did a few minutes ago. “You’re a dramatic bitch,” he says fondly, pulling Charlie’s head back into his lap and petting him like a cat. Charlie would probably purr, if he could. He’s not gonna tell Marcus, though, because then he’s gonna get a big fat head. He’s probably gonna tell Marcus. 

“Purr,” Charlie says. Since his eyes are closed, he doesn’t see Marcus pinch the bridge of his nose, nor does he see the affectionate look that Marcus fixes him with as he threads his fingers through Charlie’s tangled hair. 

“Okay,” Marcus says. “We’re going home.” Charlie doesn’t respond, until Marcus slips out from under him, grabbing at his shirt until Marcus takes his hand and pulls him up. Someone slaps his hand and Marcus says a few goodbyes before they’re stumbling down the stairs together. 

“Have you seen Roderick?” Marcus asks, as they walk past that kid on the couch from before. 

“I haven’t seen anybody but you,” Charlie says, yawning, smiling like he knows he’s being a shit. 

Marcus’ face is a little pink, probably from the weed, but he rolls his eyes and together they make their way clumsily through the house, taking careful steps down the front stairs and into the cold night. 

For the whole walk home Marcus doesn’t drop Charlie’s hand, not even when he has to fumble for his house key on the porch. Charlie looks at their intertwined fingers as they walk up the stairs, Marcus leading him up, and he thinks about how even though his hand is sweaty and he probably smells, Marcus is still here, still bringing him home. For a moment, he’s back in his body, his head clear as he thinks about how it must not be easy to love him like this, but Marcus does anyway. Marcus left early with him, left his brother at the house, even though Charlie interrupted whatever he was doing and commanded all of Marcus’ attention. He poured Charlie a glass of water downstairs and when they get to Marcus’ room he will grab Charlie a shirt from the top drawer of his dresser, one that is full of only Charlie’s things. His toothbrush sits in the family bathroom and in the morning Marcus will grumble at him for stealing his toothpaste, even though he knows Marcus leaves it out on the counter on purpose so that Charlie doesn’t have to go looking for it when he wakes up before Marcus. He’s knocked breathless, for just a moment, as his tired, drunk brain realizes that Marcus takes care of him like it’s a normal part of life. 

“You still with me?” Marcus asks, sleepily. They’re at the top of the stairs, still holding hands, and Charlie wonders how long they’ve been standing at the landing. 

He yawns in response, leaning his head forward until it rests on Marcus’. 

“Sleep,” Marcus says, helpfully, reaching a hand up to pat Charlie’s head. “Let’s go.” 

When they do fall asleep, tangled under the covers in Marcus’ bed, Charlie tucks his head underneath Marcus’ chin, feet dangling over the bottom edge of the bed. Marcus wraps his arms around Charlie as if it makes sense to sleep like this, all six feet of Charlie fitted into Marcus’ small frame.

When Marcus wakes up, Charlie will have made them both breakfast already. They don’t talk about it but Marcus ruffles Charlie's head when he comes downstairs, tugging gently at the greasy strands.