The heat of another body rippled through me, mingling with my own inner fire. It had to be Baccha, right? I vaguely remembered him helping me into the backseat of the ride. I remembered him sliding in as well, but that was as far as my memory extended.
Why was I so hesitant to just turn around and see? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had become keenly aware of his breath on the nape of my neck now.
Okay that's enough, I thought, just roll on out of the bed now. Nice and easy. In three, two . . .
I heard sounds of shifting going on behind me, then an arm came over my midsection
"Morning, dolly."
"Top of the morning, asshole. What are you doing?"
"Sharing body heat. Do you know you sleep in a catacomb?"
Shoving his hand back, I kicked off the covers and got out. Standing up, I turned to face him. He'd slept in the clothes that he'd worn to the Invisible Scorpion the night before, only removing the denim jacket.
I, on the other hand, apparently had decided to change into something more comfortable. I was in a size S pair of running shorts that I never, EVER wore out of the house, and a grey singlet my mom had gifted me recently. It was one of those tops with split hems at the side, and the front hem had chosen this opportune moment to roll itself up, threatening to expose my navel.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Baccha said, seemingly reading my mind.
"What?"
"You were the one who wanted to change out of what you were wearing! You ran to the bathroom and left me out here waiting for like, ever. I thought you died in there."
I smirked. "I'm never drinking again."
"Wow, years since I heard that one from you."
"Thanks for getting me home."
"Not a problem," he said, hoisting himself up on an elbow, like the fourth member of the colourful and mystical women from my dormitory dream. "I realised I had to see you all the way, like old times, because when the driver asked where to, I looked at you, and you were out."
"Heh, sounds about right."
"Funny thing was that the second we hit the steps to your front door you straightened right the fuck up. Like, auto-sober got turned on or something."
We both snickered.
"You don't get to judge me, bro," I said, "I've seen you pulling the same kind of shit too."
It was true, too. It was a trope among our friends that we pretty much took turns to get wrecked and pass out whenever we made a night of it. It was uncanny; be it absinthe, whiskey on the rocks, or just plain dimestore beer, one of us would become totally inert and incapable of speech beyond guttural sounds. The other would then naturally see to it that they were hydrated, would find them a nice corner they could lean against. You know, keep the head up so that gravity wouldn't be a bitch and bring up whatever we'd chugged down.
And no matter what state the other was in, he'd ensure the fallen comrade got home. There were more than a handful of times where we'd barely make it into the room before the caretaker crashed too.
So this wasn't the first time both of us had knocked out on the same bed. Not by a loooooooooong shot. But it was the first time, we'd been uh, so close. And sharing the blanket? That was new too. The norm had been for me to wake up and glimpse the lower half of his body on the bed, the other half sprawled upside down, face full of hair and drool.
"Please tell me you have a spare toothbrush?"
"That shouldn't be a problem."
He grinned. "Any booze?" What was that old pop psychology trick, first you asked a reasonable request that the target was likely to assent to, then you hit them with the real request . . .
But I was a past expert at turning Baccha down.
"Now that might be a problem," I said, explaining how I'd actually sworn off drinking. I figured he'd already checked the mini-fridge last night. I was right. There was nothing upstairs either, I said before he made the suggestion; the only use my parents had for alcohol was the annual Christmas fruitcake, still some months away.
We'd already covered my potential career in the finance industry, and the Zoom classes. He didn't spit out his drink or anything; it turned out that Baccha was coming up on his fifth year of working in the IT department. Same company too, that was leagues longer than any of our bands. It was hard to picture him with his dreads, typing away in a cubicle. Maybe buried in a backroom, like Richmond from TheIT Crowd. He beat me to it by mentioning that it was his go-to getup for the yearly Halloween office party.
Wait, goddamnit. What time was it?!
I began running around my room, looking for the joggers I'd wore, my phone. Then I just went for the desk. On the top right of my laptop it read 11:11. Make a wish.
I turned to face Baccha. I must have been pouting, because he collapsed back in a fit of laughter. I sighed and sat in my chair, silently chiding myself for not setting an alarm before I'd left the house.
"Toss me a Winston, jackass."
He extracted a cigarette for himself, then threw me the whole pack.
"You could still log in and attend the class," he offered. "I'll just hang around, that is if you don't mind. You still got Metal Slug 3?"
I was going to tell him to fuck off, I swear.
And yet some ten or so minutes later we were both on the couch, working through the second mission. I'd just been turned into a zombie, again, but I was out of bombs. Which meant I was basically dead meat.
"You know what I've always wondered?" I said, speaking just to take my mind off the fact that I was bailing on my bright, bright future as a financial mogul, some Executive Wealth Director or whatever the bullshit title was they'd made up to make it less apparent to the rubes they were ripping off. "Why weren't the pixel art for any of the other Neo Geo games this solid?"
"What about Blazing Star?"
"Motherfucker!" I soft-shouted, knowing my parents were probably upstairs. I'd been got by one of the icemen. Then turning to him, I said "Are you serious?"
"The sprite work is detailed, dude."
"Which is it, doll or dude?"
That got him to look at me. I regretted it instantly. We locked eyes, and I watched his irises move as they took in the details of my face, then wander down to my lips and back up. I wondered if I looked sultry, if I was giving him bedroom eyes. Why was I even thinking that? I'd never, ever thought of him that way. All the same, I was suddenly hyperaware that our legs were touching.
I glanced at my exposed thighs. They were all the more naked now, as the once-stringy and black hairs had turned blonde and trim, practically invisible. Both thrill and terror surged within me, and I recognised them as the same sensations I'd felt in bed earlier.
"Baccha."
"Hmm?"
"You're staring."
To his credit, he didn't try to wave off that he'd been caught blatantly staring at my chest. Instead, he met my eyes and with a slight sideways turn of his head and smile managed to disarm me. I suddenly knew why girls found a quiet confidence alluring.