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đžOne Drunken Night Chrisđž
🕑 Added 2025-05-29 01:00:05 +0000 UTCI wrote this with a very messy, hurt MC in mindâsomeone who sees Chris as a rebound. They're not ready to face their pain, so they try to numb it instead. The people theyâd usually lean on arenât there⌠so they end up turning to the one person who is. (Still shocked Chris won.)
Word Count: 2540
Why did I come here?
The answer is right in front of youâCamâs neck wrapped in arms that arenât yours.
A week ago, Cam practically got down on one knee begging, âCome on, Red, we havenât hung out in like a week. Besides, this will be our first toga party.â
Youâd pictured it before â just under different circumstances. How could you say no to that hopeful grin, yours a week too late?
You couldnât.
Now, here you are, surrounded by a sea of peers. Some were draped in white sheets, others in blue â the universityâs colors.
Cam, of course, stands outâred hair blazing like a beacon. His toga clings just right when he turns. Thatâs when you reached for your first drink.
Your second drink comes as Peri â grinning, and loud â tugs Camâs toga loose with a laugh, the fabric slipping just enough to make your stomach twist.
Iâm not jealous. I just miss him.
You almost believe it â until the ache in your chest says otherwise.
Then someone bumps your elbow, and the illusion shatters. The frat house is thick with bodies pressed close. Sweat mingles with the scent of alcohol and cheap pizza. Itâs warm â far too warm to be comfortable.
You down another drink and try not to look in Camâs direction again.
The party grows louder, hotter â the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes you feel like you're drowning in someone elseâs breath. Sweat beads at your temple. You tug at your collar.
Periâs laugh slices through the music, sharp and bright as broken glass. Theyâre still at Camâs side, tugging him toward the dance floor with easy confidence. Their hands linger â casual, like they belong there. Like you never did.
Itâs not jealousy. You swear it isnât. But something about the way Cam doesnât push them away, the way his eyes flick toward you and then away again â that stings.
You thought maybe tonight would be fun. Light. Like it used to be.
Now it feels like you're watching your life from the other side of a glass â not quite invited, not quite gone.
Someone brushes past your back, and you realize your shoulderâs tensed so tight it aches. Your heart kicks up. The musicâs too loud. The bass is a throb behind your eyes. The floor feels sticky and unsteady under your shoes.
The pressure in your chest climbsâa tight, hot ache that doesnât let go. You need air. Space. Anything but this.
Your hand tightens around the cup. You down the drink in one bitter swallow, barely tasting it.
Then a hand presses on your shoulder, pulling you back. Your body freezes â then eases at the sound of his voice.
âSorry aboutâŚâ Cam starts, but his words are lost in the thrum of the music.
Sorry about what? Peri? The party? The fact that you feel like a ghost?
âIâll make it up to you, okay? You and me. Super greasy take-out. A crappy movie.â
Like old times â just the two of us.
The idea brings a smile to your face, one that is quickly washed away with the sound of a voice. âMind if I steal him for a bit?â Periâs grin doesnât quite reach their eyes â too practiced, too pleased.
To everyone else, itâs harmless. But you feel it: the shift. The shove. The quiet erasure of your space.
Cam opens his mouth, but Periâs already sliding an arm around his waist, leaning in, voice honey-sweet and low. âChris was here earlier. Iâm sure theyâd be happy to keep you company.â
Those words settled in your chest like a stone you didnât expect. It shouldnât hurt. It shouldnât matter. But it did.
You canât face the ghosts tonight. Not Cam. Not G. Not the ache they leave behind.
Instead, another drink slides down your throat, and you slip away.
You donât remember deciding to walkâjust that you needed out. Out of the party, out of your own skin. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere that still wants you.
Your feet carry you away from the heat and noise, into the cool night. Music and laughter dissolve behind you as you approach the law firm where Chris works.
Your hand hesitates on the door. This is a line. For you. For everything youâre still tryingâdesperatelyâto hold onto. But the alcohol hums low in your blood, whispering lies you almost believe â that maybe here, now, youâll find a momentâs relief.
Maybe a numbness to forget heartache. Maybe something to dull the sharp edge of longing.
The door creaks open before you can knock. Thereâs no surprise on Chrisâs face. Just a smile, and the offer of a drink.
A throw blanket rests on the arm of the chair. Yours. One you left behind months ago. Folded neatly, like someone had been waiting.
Your fingers brush over the soft fabric before you slide into a worn leather chair. Then, your fingers trail along the smooth mahogany desk. The overhead light washes out the bright colors of the throw â as if to say it doesnât belong. Like you.
For a moment, the room spins: dark wood, soft green wallpaper, framed photos you barely recognize.
Then comes the soft pop of a cork. The quiet glug of wine poured into glass.
Chris crosses the room, balancing two drinks â one for you, one for them â a deep red.
How many drinks have you had tonight? Could you count them on one hand? You hope so. Otherwise, your head will pound in the morning, and your mom will be the first to notice when you pick her up at the airport.
Chris sets your glass down and slides back into their seat.
âYou never told me why you stopped by,â Chris says softly, âNot that Iâm complaining. But it's not every night, someone like you shows up after hours.â
Were you looking for a shoulder to lean on? Or something more?
You shake your head, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the surface of the desk. Chrisâs eyes catch the movement, a knowing smile tugging at their lips.
âI just needed toââ
Chris nudges your glass closer with two fingers before saying, âClear your head.â
Thatâs part of it⌠but why? Why now?
Maybe youâre sabotaging yourself. Maybe some part of you knew that if Cam found out you visited Chris, heâd be angryâand ask questions. Camâs with Peri now. There's no room left for you there, not even an inch.
Maybe G would care enough to ask why. Or at least yell. But you two broke up - there's still that raw edge, that distance you can't quite cross.
You needed someone. Anyone. But not Cam â not while heâs with someone else. Not G â not when what you had is still tangled in pain and silence.
So, thereâs Chris. Present, watching, waiting.
Is Chris a smart choice? A safe choice? Probably not. But theyâre here.
They swirl the drink again.
âYou know you do that a lot,â Chris says, voice low, tapping a finger lightly against their temple. âGet lost in your head. It always looks like youâre waiting for someone to drag you back out.â
They tip the glass to their lips, eyes locking onto you over the rim. âProbably Cam, right?â
You donât answer â but in your head, you think: âŚprobably.
Chris slowly wipes a stray drop of wine trailing from their lip before adding, âFunny how... you ended up here. With me.â
Your throat tightens. Youâre not sure if itâs the alcohol or the weight behind the words.
Chris tilts their head, voice softening. âI didnât mean to sound harsh. But I know you. Youâre not okay. And no oneâs asking if you are⌠are they?â
You donât answer.
âI saw G the other day,â Chris continues quietly, âwhen I went to clear out my side of the dorm. Didnât say muchâbarely looked at me. Too busy buried in their books.â
Chris glances at you, then down at the untouched glass.
âFunny how the ones who say they love you never notice when youâre falling apart.â
That hits. You reach for the glass.
Chris smilesânot smug, not oblivious. Just⌠satisfied.
âI always notice,â they say softly. âEven when you pretend everythingâs fine. Even when you try to disappear. I always notice you.â
They lean back, stretching like itâs just another nightânot something orchestrated.
âBut I get it. Youâve always had to keep it together. Your parents. G. Cam. Everyone expects the strong version of youâthe one who never breaks.â
If you were sober, youâd tell them theyâre wrong. Not about your parents, but the rest.
But you're not. And somehow, the words still cut deeperâlike the alcoholâs sharpened them instead of dulling the edge.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You sip the drinkâwarm, sharpâand swallow it down.
Chris twists a strand of blonde hair between their fingertips, eyes fixed on you.
âYou donât have to say anything,â they murmur gently. âJust breathe for once. Youâre safe here. With me.â
Are you?
You donât know. But itâs quiet and warm, and for the first time, no one is asking you to be anything other than tired and hurting.
You lean your head back, eyes drifting to the paneled ceilingâwarm brown wood arranged in quiet patterns.
Somewhere in the haze, Chris moves closer. Not touching, but near enough that the space between you all but disappears. A faint brush of their arm against yours jolts youâa shock that maybe feels nice, or maybe itâs just the alcohol.
âYou donât have to go back tonight,â they murmur.
The words stick in your throat.
Do you admit why you came? Not for comfort. Not for anything real. But for something to drown the thoughts that swirl in your head.
You shift in your seat, the room tilting just so. Your stomach twistsânot unpleasant, but enough to make your eyes water.
âI think I need coffee,â you mutter, half to yourself, pushing to your feet. âOrâor something.â
Your phone buzzes sharply on the desk.
You glance down. A name flashes across the screenâfamiliar, important. The ringtone reminds you of black hair and dark eyes - but before you can grab it, Chris snatches up the phone.
âI got it,â they say smoothly. âCoffeeâs down the hall. The second door on the left. If the assistants havenât thrown it out.â
You frown, wondering how they move so fast. But your headâs heavy and your thoughts sluggish. Chris has always been... helpful. Right?
You nod and shuffle out.
As your footsteps fade down the corridor, Chris turns the phone over in their hand. Still ringing. Their thumb hovers over the screenâthen presses.
They answer, voice low, calm but with an unmistakable edge: âG.â
Thereâs a beat. Thenâ
âI⌠I need to talk to them.â
Gâs voice isnât sharp. Itâs frayed, breathless. Like it took effort just to say that much. âItâs important.â
Chrisâs tone tightens, clipped and dismissive. âTheyâre busy right now. And by busy, I mean theyâll be occupied for the rest of the night.â
A pause.
âYou can see them in the morning if Iâm feeling generous enough to bring them backâassuming theyâre up for it after tonight.â
A slow, almost amused smirk crosses Chrisâs face as the line goes dead.
With practiced fingers, they delete the call log.
But not before catching the reminder on your lock screen:
5:00 A.M. â pick up mom at the airport.
You return with a trembling mugâchilled or shaken by the alcohol, you canât tell. The fog hasnât lifted. Itâs only thickened.
Chris sits where you left themâglass in hand, legs crossedâlike nothing happened.
You gesture toward your phone. âWho was that?â
Chris doesnât miss a beat. âVivâah, your mother,â he lies smoothly. âJust making sure you remembered to pick her up.â
You blink. A dull ache blooms behind your eyes. You lift your hand to your temple.
Chris stands beside you, closeâtoo close. A hand rests on your shoulder. Then a kiss to your temple. Your heart stammers; your breath catches.
Soft. Practiced. Too practiced.
Familiar motions, but not the comfort you crave.
If it were Cam⌠or GâŚ
Is that why you drank so much? To make this easier?
âYou just relax. Iâll pick her up,â Chris says softly, guiding you toward a quiet room down the hall. âYou can stay here tonight. No one will bother you. BesidesâŚâ
A smile lingers in their voice.
âYour mom likes it when I help you out. Like that summer BBQ at the lakehouse â she said it made her feel better, seeing how close weâd gotten.â
You pause. That sounds like herâalways eager to impress, always wanting to brag.
But if you remember right, she barely said two words to Chris that day. Too busy fawning over their father.
Maybe she did say that. Or maybe you forgot.
Your thoughts feel dry and jagged, slipping away. Your limbs are heavy like you carry the nightâs weight in your bones.
Warm alcohol swirls with the bitter edge of untouched coffee.
You nod, half-listening as Chris presses a steady hand to your shoulder and leads you into the quiet room.
âDonât worry,â they murmur. âIâll be right here when you wake up.â
The buzz of alcohol clouds your head. You linger at the door, voice uncertain. âIâm not sure Iâll remember any of this by morning.â
A quiet laugh escapes Chris, barely more than a breath. âWell⌠whatever you want to know, just ask.â
If you were sober, youâd know that sounds too good to be true. You glance back, searching their face. âYouâd tell me?â
Chrisâs eyes narrow. A slow, predatory smile curls.
âOf course. I wouldnât lie to you.â
Their fingers brush the back of your neckâlight, possessive. They're neither forceful, nor rushed. But full of intent. As if this moment already belongs to them.
A gentle warmth lingers, silently staking its claim against your skin. One fingertip slides upward, deliberate and slow, until it rests in the hollow beneath your jawâright over your pulse.
They donât press. Just hold there, still, as if feeling the exact beat where your heart stutters.
Itâs comforting. And something else tooâsomething you canât name, causing your breath to hitch.
For a fleeting second, your mind drifts to Camâat that crowded party, laughing with Peri, their hand resting lightly on his arm, their easy closeness stirring a bitter ache deep inside.
Then to G, hunched over their desk, nose buried in a book. You lying back on their bed, quietly talking, catching the rare warmth of Gâs smileâa fragile, honest moment that made the chaos seem to fade.
But neither Cam nor G is here.
Chris is.
Their voice drops low, like silk wrapped in steel.
âIâll never hurt you.â
The words send a chill down your spine, a shiver beneath your skinâfaint but unmistakable.
You step backânot from fear, but instinctâhoping the extra space will bring clarity.
Chris follows, closing the gap without touching. Measured and waiting. Their voice drops lower, breath mingling with yours in the narrow space between. The scent of expensive wine drifts, mixing with the bitter tang of your own.
âI promise."
Comments
Lea
I'll send Ro of choice in a flash!
Sarah Mooney
Oh my God I'm in so much paaaaaaain
Lea
Just how any post with Chris should be đ
A sandwich
Thank you, this was terrible and delicious đââď¸ just right
