Saturday, September 6th 2014

'Four more tequilas please!' shouted Mark as the music roared around them.

His head felt like a static-filled radio, the edges of his vision blurred, limbs heavy. Even his own name felt just out of reach. The lights were too bright, too colorful, too loud—bleeding together in a way that made his head spin. His feet felt half a second behind the rest of him, and every time he blinked, the room shifted slightly, like it was breathing. He glanced at his watch. 2am. He needed to go home, but since him and Mark were staying with Laura, he needed to wait for them.

'Cheers, Jacko,' said Mark, turning to him with the shots, some lemon slices and two sachets of salt - a go-to of theirs since the debs. Jack fumbled with the shot glasses, nearly knocking one over before grabbing hold of them. His hands felt slow, like he was moving underwater.

He licked the back of his hand, missed the spot entirely, tried again, then dumped too much salt onto it. The tequila hit his throat like a gaelic football to the face in the depths of winter, and he winced. His body curled in on itself as he coughed, half-choking. His eyes squeezed shut and his full body squirmed as the shot spilled down his throat. He coughed loudly, half choking.

'Jesus, that is muck.'

'That's delicious!' corrected Mark, slamming his shot glasses onto the counter, 'two more?'

'Fuck off.'

Mark laughed, 'fair. You don't want whiskey dick for Ciara.' He gave Jack a wink and the pair glanced back over at the group on the dancefloor. The lads that had been with them had dispersed into the crowd looking for the shift. Now it was just the pair of them and the group of girls; one of whom was gagging for Jack.

'Y-yeah... wait, wha' was I sayin'?'

Mark laughed. 'Ciara's all over ya, lad. Go for it.'

Jack shook his head a beat too late. 'I'm—' He stopped, blinked hard. 'I'm too... drunk. Too drunk. I—fuck, I think I'm gonna get sick.'

Mark grabbed Jack and pulled him back towards the dancefloor where the gang of girls had created a little dance circle. They pushed through a sea of sweaty bodies, bobbing back and forth to the music like they were treading water in the sea. As they approached, Laura's friend Ciara smiled at Jack, 'let's dance.'

She took Jack's hand and led him deeper into the crowd, and he watched as Mark and the girls disappeared behind him. Their bodies pressed together. She was grinding against him, resting her forearms against his chest and cupping his jaw in her hands. He smiled as they danced, wrapping his hands around her lower back which also helped him balance himself. He clumsily let her guide him about the dancefloor - his feet banging off each other. She slowly slid her hands down his chest and around his ass and then she kissed him sloppily - they were both hammered.

Her tongue poked around his mouth, and occasionally slipped outside, touching the outside of his lips. He could feel a mix of saliva, alcohol, and lipstick being smudged across his mouth. 'Wanna come back to mine?' she asked eventually as she gently nibbled on his neck. He didn't respond. Instead, he pulled her in by the waist and kissed her again. After a few minutes, her hands slowly moved down to his crotch and he pulled back. 'Are you OK?'

'Sorry, I don't feel great. I'm gonna go to the bathroom. I'll see you in a bit,' he said, and before she had the chance to respond he pushed his way to the bathroom.

The moment Jack stumbled into the cubicle, his stomach flipped violently. He barely had time to grab the toilet before a wave of burning liquid surged up his throat.

He gagged, choked, then violently retched, his body folding in on itself as the tequila erupted onto the seat and cistern.

His knees sank into the filthy, piss-soaked floor, but he barely registered it—his entire body was locked in a spasm, forcing up everything inside him.

He coughed, gasped, then lurched forward again, another heave ripping through him. His eyes watered as he emptied his guts, the acidity of his sick tearing at his throat and the back of his teeth as it fought its way from his body.

After what must have been twenty minutes, the vomiting finally stopped and he wiped his chin with the back of his hand, spitting the last bit of mucus from his gob and blowing his nose with some tissue. He took out his phone and struggled to make his eyes focus on the time. 4am. It took him longer than it should have to open up his conversation with Mark, where a few texts he hadn't seen had come in. He started to attempt to pull together a text message to his friend, but his phone switched off. The battery had given up on him.

'Oh fuck,' he moaned, struggling to his feet as someone pounded on the bathroom door behind him, roaring at him to open up. As he twisted the lock, the door burst open and a bouncer reached in and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him from the bathroom.

He led Jack from the cubicle and back out into the main room of the nightclub where the lights had been switched back on and the crowd had emptied apart from the staff. He squinted against the blinding lights and struggled across the dancefloor, his feet sticking to the surface with each step, making an audible squelch that the music had previously drowned out. The bouncer tossed him out the door and he stumbled for a second, but regained balance.

No sign of Mark.

Or Laura.

Even Ciara would do at this stage.

The street was bedlam—drunk students fighting for taxis, couples shifting sloppily against walls, bouncers barking at people to move. Every so often someone passed and the vinegary smell of chipper chips invaded his nose, making Jack's stomach grumble - but food wasn't his priority right now. He had no phone battery, no money, and had no idea how to find Laura's house or his friends.

'Mark!' he roared, although his voice was hoarse, 'Laura!'

Jack stumbled forward, then sideways, his feet refusing to stay in a straight line. The pavement tilted under him, and he grabbed a lamppost just to steady himself.

Someone bumped into him—or did he bump into them? He muttered something that wasn't even words and kept moving.

Left. Right. No, wait—where was he going?

He felt the drunkest he had ever been. But still, he forced himself to put left in front of right, and right in front of left as he walked in the general direction of Laura's - or at least the direction he thought she lived in. He figured he would meet them at the house, it had only taken them fifteen minutes to walk from pre-drinks earlier. He couldn't have been that far away.

'Any spare change, pal?' asked a homeless man who was huddled in the nook beside the entrance to a Barbers. Jack passed silently, barely giving him a glance.

He walked for what had to have been twenty minutes, and then stopped at a bench to get sick. He heaved up what felt like an empty stomach while on his hunkers, the echoes of his vomiting roaring through the night. The crowd had dissipated and the strangers that did pass were fewer and farther between. Jack sat up on the bench, buried his head in his hands, and sighed. He was fucked.

Jack barely registered the voice at first—just a murmur cutting through the thick fog in his head. His brain felt slow, like his thoughts were wading through tar.

'You alright, bai?' in a Cork accent so undeniably strong it was almost comical.

He blinked blearily, forcing his head up from where it had slumped into his hands. The pavement spun for a second before settling into something almost stable.

A guy had sat beside him on the bench, picking at a box of Chinese food with wooden chopsticks. The smell of salt, soy, and grease hit Jack's nose, making his stomach lurch unpleasantly.

He was around Jack's age, maybe a little younger, with messy dark hair and silver earrings that caught the streetlight. His eyeliner was smudged at the edges, but his blue eyes were sharp and focused. His t-shirt—if you could call it that—was basically a mesh second skin, clinging to his frame.

He nudged Jack with a half-full bottle of water. 'Here, drink dat. I'm Ciarán,' said the boy, reaching his hand out.

Jack took it without thinking, gulping it down like it was nectar from the gods. His throat burned raw from tequila and vomit, but the cool water dulled the sting slightly. 'Jack,' he said, shaking the boy's hand.

'You look like pure shite,' the guy added casually, flicking a noodle into his mouth, 'no offence, like.'

Jack let out a breathy laugh, a hoarse, ugly sound. 'Yeah. Feel like it too.'

'Lost?'

Jack hesitated. His thoughts were tangled, hard to pull apart. 'Dunno. Maybe. Can't find my mates. Phone's dead.'

The guy hummed, chewing thoughtfully. 'Rough night?'

'Yeah,' Jack exhaled, running a shaky hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He looked at him properly now, gaze lingering too long on the piercings, the eyeliner, the snug fit of his jeans.

Something unfamiliar and restless stirred in his chest.

Ciarán caught him looking. Smirked. 'You okay there, girl?'

Girl?

Jack felt his face heat—not the drunk, feverish heat from earlier, but something else entirely.

'Are you...' His voice caught in his throat. His brain scrambled for words, but he was too pissed to filter them properly. He swallowed hard. Forced himself to say it. 'Are you, like... gay?'

Ciarán's smirk widened. 'Pure flamer bai.'

Jack's tongue felt too thick in his mouth. His brain was lagging, like a buffering video. His entire body felt off-kilter—like he was leaning over the edge of something, about to fall.

He didn't think. Didn't stop to question it. Just reached out, cupped Ciarán's face, and kissed him.

For a second, Ciarán froze—just enough for Jack to think, oh fuck, what am I doing?

Then he felt the press of warm lips against his own, the faint taste of soy sauce and something sweet, and the slow curl of Ciarán's fingers against his arm.

Jack's pulse roared in his ears.

He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the exhaustion, or the fact that he didn't feel repulsed.

Didn't feel nothing.

'It's five in the marnin'. D'ya wanna just stay on my couch? You can charge your phone.'

'Yeah, ok,' Jack responded, and the boy guided him down the street, his legs like jelly.