How to treat an hangover
The night unraveled slowly, the way these things always did—one person peeling off, then another, leaving behind empty glasses and the ghost of bass lines still thrumming in the walls.
James and Charlotte left first, his arm draped heavy across her shoulders, her ponytail crooked and her laugh too loud for the quiet street outside. Then Marc's phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen with a quick grin, muttering something about a buddy from the baseball team who was waiting outside. He clapped Adam on the shoulder—a solid, heavy thud—and gave the rest of the group a casual nod, his eyes lingering on Nick for just a beat longer than necessary before he turned and strode off into the night, his broad back disappearing around the corner. Stella followed not long after, blowing theatrical kisses at everyone before tumbling into an Uber that smelled like pine air freshener and someone else's cologne. Édouard had vanished at some point without saying goodbye, the way he always did, his cider bottle left on a windowsill like a signature.
And then it was just Adam and Nick.
The club's lights had come up—harsh, unforgiving fluorescents that turned everyone's skin sallow—and the bartender was stacking chairs with pointed efficiency. Nick's feet ached. His shirt clung to his lower back in a way that had stopped being tolerable an hour ago. But Adam was beaming at him with that particular drunk radiance, his glasses smudged and crooked, his cheeks flushed pink.
"You came," Adam said, his voice carrying the loose, earnest quality of someone who'd crossed the line from drunk to sincerely drunk. "You actually came. To the club. With everyone."
"I was at your apartment first," Nick pointed out, but he was smiling. "It was your birthday party. Where else would I be?"
"No, I know, but—" Adam waved a hand, nearly overbalancing, then caught himself on Nick's shoulder. His fingers were warm through the fabric. "You don't like crowds. You don't like loud music. You don't like—" Another vague gesture. "People. But you came anyway. For me."
Nick's chest tightened. Not unpleasantly.
"It's your birthday," he said again, quieter.
Adam's expression softened into something that made Nick's stomach flip. "I saw you talking to Marc. After the... you know." He mimed a collision with his hands. "Rough start. But you talked. You were friendly."
"I was civil."
"You were friendly." Adam insisted, poking Nick's chest with a finger that missed slightly and landed on his collarbone. "I saw you dancing. Both of you. You were—" He broke off, grinning. "You were getting along."
Nick thought about the kitchen. The tequila. The way Marc's shoulder had pressed against his. The dance floor, Marc's hand on his waist, those blue eyes saying "stay with me".
"He's a pretty chill guy," Nick admitted. "We talked for a while. He's... not what I expected."
Adam's grin widened. The look in his eyes was knowing, almost smug, but there was something softer beneath it—relief, maybe. Or hope.
"I'm glad," he said, and the words came out sincere in a way that drunk people rarely managed. "Really glad. You deserve more people. Good people." He leaned closer, his breath warm and sharp with tequila. "You've been good tonight. Very good. I think you deserve a reward."
Nick's pulse kicked.
"What kind of reward?"
Adam's smile turned malicious in the best possible way. "You'll see."
The walk to Adam's apartment was a blur of streetlights and stumbling and Adam's hand finding Nick's every few blocks, their fingers tangling and untangling. The night air had cooled, carrying the faint salt-scent of a city that was never quite asleep. Nick's head was buzzing—not drunk, not anymore, but something adjacent. Tipsy enough to feel loose. Sober enough to want.
Adam fumbled with his keys for an embarrassing amount of time, muttering curses under his breath, and Nick leaned against the doorframe watching him with a fondness that felt too big for his chest.
The lock finally clicked.
They barely made it inside before Adam turned and crashed into him.
The kiss was messy and urgent, tasting of tequila and the ghost of lime, Adam's mouth hot and insistent against his. His glasses bumped Nick's nose. His hands were already at Nick's hips, fingers digging into the jut of bone there, pulling him closer. Nick made a sound—something between a laugh and a gasp—and kissed back, his own hands coming up to cup Adam's face, thumbs brushing the hinge of his jaw.
"You taste like a distillery," Nick murmured against his mouth.
"Romantic." Adam was already walking him backward toward the hallway, their feet tangling, shoulders bumping the wall. "You taste like beer. Good beer, though. The expensive kind."
"You're an idiot."
"Your idiot." Adam's grin was a flash of teeth in the dim light of the apartment. "For tonight, anyway."
The bedroom door swung open. Adam's shirt came off first—yanked over his head with the graceless enthusiasm of someone who'd been thinking about this for hours. Nick's followed, buttons slipping free under fingers that were too eager to be precise. The air hit his skin, cool against the heat radiating from his chest, and then Adam was on him again, mouth trailing from his lips to his jaw to the curve of his neck.
Nick's breath stuttered.
"You're drunk," he managed, even as his fingers found Adam's belt buckle.
"I'm happy." Adam's teeth grazed his collarbone. "There's a difference. And you're—" He pulled back just enough to meet Nick's eyes, his gaze surprisingly steady despite the alcohol. "You're here. You're here, Nick. That matters."
Something twisted in Nick's chest. He didn't have a name for it.
"Bed," he said, because it was easier than saying anything else.
Adam grinned and let himself be guided backward until his calves hit the mattress. He sat down heavily, the springs groaning under him, and looked up at Nick with an expression that was equal parts adoration and hunger.
Nick dropped to his knees.
The position was familiar. The way Adam's breath caught was familiar too, that sharp inhale that Nick had learned to listen for, that told him he was doing something right. He worked Adam's belt open, then the button of his jeans, then the zipper, each motion deliberate. Adam's hands found his hair, fingers threading through the blond strands that had grown too long over his ears.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." Nick looked up, met his eyes. "Let me?"
Adam's throat moved as he swallowed. He nodded.
Nick took his time. He liked taking his time. Liked the way Adam's fingers tightened in his hair, the way his hips shifted restlessly against the mattress, the soft sounds he made when Nick's mouth found him. Six inches, thick enough to make his jaw ache, familiar and intimate and his. The taste of skin was salt-warm, grounding. Adam's head fell back, his throat exposed in a way that made Nick’s stomach tighten with something tender and possessive. His glasses slipped down his nose, and Nick had the sudden, absurd urge to reach up and push them back into place. Instead, he focused on the rhythm—slow, deliberate, savoring the weight on his tongue and the way Adam's breath hitched whenever he did something right.
Somewhere in the apartment, the refrigerator hummed to life, a low and steady sound that seemed almost absurd against the quiet, wet noises filling the room. Nick let his hands rest on Adam's thighs, thumbs tracing idle circles into the warm skin there. He could feel the muscle twitching beneath his touch, a tell that Adam was trying—and failing—to stay still. That was the thing about taking his time. It let him notice the small stuff: the way Adam's toes curled against the sheets, the way his free hand had fisted in the blanket, the way his breathing had gone shallow and uneven, like he was holding onto the edge of something.
Nick pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, his lips brushing against Adam's skin. "You okay?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.
"Don't stop," Adam managed, the words strangled. His fingers tightened in Nick's hair, pulling him back down with an urgency that made Nick smile against him.
He obeyed. He let his mouth wander, trailing kisses and nips along the length of Adam's cock before taking him in again, deeper this time, letting his throat relax. The moan that escaped Adam was low and broken, and Nick felt it vibrate through his own chest. He picked up the pace—not fast, but purposeful, a steady rhythm that had Adam's hips beginning to buck. One of Nick's hands slid from Adam's thigh to his stomach, pressing down gently to anchor him, to keep him from chasing the rhythm too quickly. "Not yet," he murmured, pulling away again, licking his lips. "I want to draw this out."
Adam made a sound of pure, wordless frustration, but it dissolved into a shuddering sigh as Nick's mouth returned, slow and torturous. He took him to the back of his throat, held him there for a heartbeat, then pulled back to breathe warm air over the slick skin. The contrast made Adam gasp. His glasses had fallen off entirely now, clattering somewhere on the pillow. Nick didn't care. He was too focused on the way Adam was unraveling above him—muscles tensing, fingers trembling, the flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck.
The third time Nick slowed down, Adam let out a desperate laugh. "You're going to kill me."
Nick looked up, lips swollen, eyes dark with satisfaction. "But what a way to go."
He lowered his mouth again, and this time, he didn't stop.
"Okay," Adam breathed, tugging gently at Nick's hair. "Okay, come here. My turn."
The bed welcomed them both. Adam's mouth traced a path down Nick's chest, his stomach, the ridge of his hipbone. Nick's boxers went somewhere—he didn't see where, didn't care. Then Adam was positioning them, shifting, and Nick understood what he wanted. The old rhythm, the one they'd perfected over months of nights like this.
Sixty-nine. Wild and urgent, Adam's mouth hot and eager, the vibration of his moans traveling through Nick's body. Nick returned the favor, his focus splintering between the pleasure he was giving and the pleasure he was receiving, everything blurring into sensation. Adam's fingers found him—probing, gentle, then less gentle as Nick's body opened for him. One finger, then two. The stretch was familiar, welcome, a preparation that spoke of trust and knowing.
Nick lost track of time. The world narrowed to this: mouths and hands and the sounds they made together, the creak of the mattress, the sweat-slick slide of skin.
Then Adam pulled back. His lips were swollen. His pupils were blown wide behind his smudged glasses.
"I want you," he said, and his voice was rough in a way that sent heat lancing through Nick's belly. "Like this. From behind."
Nick's body answered before his brain did, already turning, already shifting onto his hands and knees. The sheets were cool against his palms. Behind him, Adam moved, his warmth a presence at Nick's back, his breath ghosting across Nick's shoulder blades. And Adam entered him—slow at first, deliberate, the way Nick liked, letting him adjust to the fullness, the pressure, the way they fit together.
Nick's hand found his own cock, fingers wrapping around himself with practiced ease, the touch electric against his heated skin. The dual sensation was overwhelming in the best way—Adam moving inside him, slow and deep, his hips pressing forward with a rhythm that was both possessive and tender. Nick matched it with his own hand, stroking in counterpoint, pleasure building and coiling like heat spreading through his bloodstream. Each thrust from Adam pushed him forward into his own grip, creating a perfect, relentless loop of sensation that made his breath catch and his thighs tremble.
He let his head fall forward, forehead pressing into the cool sheets, and focused on the feeling of Adam's body against his. The weight of him, the warmth of his chest pressing against Nick's back, the way his breath came in harsh, uneven pants against Nick's neck. Adam's fingers dug into his hips, not hard enough to bruise, but firm, grounding, as if he was afraid Nick might dissolve beneath him. Nick moaned, low and guttural, and the sound seemed to spur Adam on. His rhythm stuttered, quickened, losing its careful control as pleasure began to take over.
"God, Nick," Adam breathed, the words ragged and broken against the shell of his ear. "You feel— fuck —you feel incredible."
Nick's hand moved faster, matching the new urgency, his thumb swiping over the head of his cock with a slick, wet sound that cut through the quiet room. The pressure was building behind his eyes, a white-hot shimmer that made his fingers curl into the sheets. He could feel Adam's rhythm faltering, the way his hips snapped forward with less grace and more need, chasing a finish that was close enough to taste. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and sex, and every sound—the creak of the mattress, Adam's ragged breaths, Nick's own hitched moans—felt amplified, intimate, as if the world outside this room had ceased to exist.
Nick's arm began to ache with the effort of holding himself up, but he didn't dare stop, didn't dare break the rhythm that was pulling them both toward the edge. Adam's hand slid from his hip to his chest, fingers finding his nipple and pinching lightly, sending a shock of pleasure straight down to where they were joined. Nick cried out, his body arching back, and Adam groaned in response, burying his face in the curve of Nick's shoulder.
"I'm close," Adam gasped, the words muffled against his skin. "Nick, I'm so close—"
"Nick—"
The name was a warning and a prayer.
Nick's vision whited out. His release spilled across the sheets beneath him, hot and sudden, pulled from somewhere deep. Behind him, Adam shuddered, groaned, and then went still except for the trembling in his thighs.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Adam pulled out gently, carefully, and collapsed sideways onto the mattress. His eyes were already closing.
"Love you," he mumbled into the pillow. "So much. Best birthday."
Nick's chest squeezed. "You're going to regret that tequila in the morning."
"Worth it."
By the time Nick had cleaned himself up, wiped down the worst of the sheets with a damp towel, and pulled the blanket over Adam's sprawled form, the other man was already snoring. Soft, rhythmic, ridiculously endearing.
Nick stood in the doorway of the bedroom, towel in hand, watching Adam's chest rise and fall in the thin light from the streetlamp outside. The apartment was quiet. The party was over. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a pair of pale blue eyes watched him across a dance floor.
Stay with me.
Nick turned off the light. The first pale fingers of sunlight crept through the blinds, painting thin golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. Nick blinked awake slowly, his head pleasantly fuzzy rather than pounding—a minor miracle given the tequila. The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles above him, stirring the warm morning air.
Beside him, Adam was a dead weight. Flat on his stomach, face mashed into the pillow, one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress. He hadn't moved an inch in what must have been hours. A soft, rattling snore escaped his parted lips every few seconds.
Nick propped himself up on one elbow and watched him for a moment. There was something almost comical about the scene—Adam's hair was a disaster, his glasses were somewhere lost in the sheets, and a faint line of drool traced from the corner of his mouth to the pillowcase. He looked less like a man and more like a crime scene.
"Morning," Nick said quietly.
No response. Not even a twitch.
Nick smiled to himself. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards cool against his bare feet. His muscles ached pleasantly, a reminder of the night before, but his head felt clear. Clear enough, anyway. He found his running shorts in the tangle of clothes on the floor, pulled them on, and laced his sneakers with practiced efficiency.
He paused at the bedroom door, glancing back. Adam hadn't moved. The sun was creeping higher, catching the dust motes suspended in the air. A good day to sweat out the remnants of the party.
The front door clicked shut behind him, and Nick took a deep breath of the morning air, already breaking into a steady jog down the sunlit street.
The sun was warm on Nick's shoulders as he rounded the corner near the science building, his breath falling into an easy rhythm. The campus was quiet at this hour, still drowsy with morning, and the green stretched out around him in broad, manicured lawns dotted with oak trees. A fountain burbled somewhere to his left. The air smelled like cut grass and damp earth.
He was just settling into the comfortable burn of a good run when he turned a corner and nearly collided with a solid wall of muscle.
"Whoa—"
Marc stumbled back, yanking one earbud from his ear. His chest was heaving, his tank top dark with sweat, his blond hair plastered to his forehead in a way that should have looked gross but somehow didn't. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by a grin that was equal parts surprise and something warmer.
Morning light caught the pale blue of his eyes.
"Nick," Marc said, breathless. He steadied himself with a hand on Nick's shoulder, his palm warm and damp through the thin fabric of his shirt. "Jesus. You run too?"
"Yeah," Nick said, the word coming out a little breathier than he intended. "We talked about it last night. I run most mornings." He gestured vaguely at the path ahead. "Clears the head."
Marc shook his head, still grinning, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "You run that early? After a party? I'm impressed. And a little concerned for your sanity."
Nick shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I like it. The sun's not too hot yet. Everything's quiet. Feels like the city's mine for an hour."
Marc's grin softened into something appraising. He bounced on his heels, clearly still warm, his breath already evening out. "Well, I'm headed south toward the lake path. About five kilometers. You wanna join? Keep me company?"
Nick hesitated for only a second. The thought of running with someone—especially someone who filled a doorway like Marc did—was strangely appealing. The solitude of his morning runs was sacred, but so was the pull of those blue eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "I'd like that.
Marc’s smile widened, but when he reached for his earbud, he paused. His hand hovered for a moment, then he tugged both earbuds out, letting them dangle against his chest. The low thrum of music died, replaced by the sound of their breathing and the distant chatter of early-morning birds.
“Nah,” Marc said, winding the cord loosely around his phone. “Feels weird sharing. I’ll just suffer in silence with you.”
Nick laughed, a short, surprised sound. “You don’t have to suffer. What were you listening to?”
Marc’s eyes lit up, a genuine enthusiasm softening the sharp lines of his face. “A techno mixer. One of those hour-long sets, you know? No lyrics, just— pulse. Beat after beat. Helps me empty my head.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Shuts everything up. Lets my legs do the thinking.”
That surprised Nick. He’d expected some thrash rap playlist, something aggressive and loud. But techno? The image of Marc pounding along a lake path to a steady, synthetic beat was unexpectedly human.
“I get that,” Nick said, and meant it. “Sometimes you need the noise to find the quiet.”
Marc looked at him sideways, a curious glint in his pale eyes. “Yeah,” he said, his voice softer than Nick had heard it. “Exactly that.”
They set off together, falling into an easy rhythm, shoulders brushing as they rounded the fountain and headed toward the lake. They rounded the final bend in the path, and the lake opened up before them—flat and silver in the morning light, ringed by weeping willows and the distant silhouette of a rower cutting through the stillness. Nick slowed to a jog, then a walk, his breath coming in deep, measured pulls. Beside him, Marc did the same, bending forward with his hands on his knees for a moment before straightening and dragging a forearm across his forehead.
Nick's eyes caught, and held. Marc was drenched. Sweat ran in rivulets down his temples, trailing along the sharp line of his jaw. His tank top—once a nondescript gray—was now dark and plastered to his torso like a second skin. The fabric clung to every contour: the broad sweep of his shoulders, the thick swell of his pectorals, the ridged map of his abdominal muscles. His biceps bulged as he lifted his arms to wring the hem of his shirt, exposing a flash of tanned stomach before the fabric fell back into place. His shorts rode high on tree trunk like thighs that could snap a telephone pole in half, and behind him, the curve of his ass strained against the seams in a way that seemed almost unfair.
Nick shook his head, hard, pulling his gaze away before it lingered too long.
Marc didn't seem to notice. He was grinning, breathing hard, his eyes bright with endorphins and sunlight. "Fuck, that felt good," he said, and tipped his head back to let the breeze cool his throat. "You got anything planned after this?"
Nick's mouth was dry. "Not really."
Marc's grin softened into something more contemplative. He nodded toward a small café tucked between two old brick buildings at the edge of the park, its striped awning fluttering in the morning breeze. "There's a place over there," he said, his voice casual but his eyes steady. "Good coffee. Quiet. A way to relax after the run. You wanna join me?"Nick's pulse was already slowing from the run, but something in Marc's gaze made it skip again. "Yeah," he said, before he could overthink it. "Coffee sounds good."
The café was small and tucked away, the kind of place that relied on regulars rather than foot traffic. They found a table by the window, worn wooden surface etched with the ghost of countless coffee rings. Morning light fell across the table in a warm rectangle. Marc sprawled into his chair with the unconscious grace of an athlete, his long legs stretching out until his knee brushed Nick's under the table.
"You weren't lying about that path," Marc said, wrapping both hands around his mug. Steam curled past his face. "You've got good stamina. Good pace."
Nick shrugged, but a small smile tugged at his mouth. "You kept up pretty well yourself. Especially carrying all that—" he gestured vaguely at Marc's shoulders, his chest. "—extra weight."
Marc laughed, a full sound that drew glances from the barista. He flexed his bicep experimentally, the muscle bunching against the damp fabric of his tank top. "Gotta put this gym time to use somehow."
"Clearly."
Marc's grin faded into something quieter. He looked down at his coffee, rotating the mug slowly between his palms, watching the dark liquid swirl. The morning light caught the condensation on the glass, and for a moment, he seemed lost in the motion. "I do a lot of sports," he said, his voice softer now, stripped of the bravado that had colored their first exchange. "I guess it's... the one thing I'm really good at."
He paused, his throat moving as he swallowed. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable—it was the kind of pause that held weight, like he was deciding how much to let someone see. "I don't have a lot of confidence. Never really have." He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "That probably sounds stupid, coming from someone my size. People look at me and they see—" He gestured vaguely at his own frame, at the shoulders that strained the seams of his tank top. "They see the jock. The guy who's supposed to be sure of himself. But most days, I feel like I'm just... faking it."
His fingers tightened around the mug, knuckles whitening briefly before he relaxed them. " Especially at school, when I have to study or so. I do my best to study, because I know it is important. But I have to do at least two times the effort to barely pass my exams. On the field, or in the gym—that's different. I know what I'm doing there. The rules make sense. The effort is honest. You push, you get results. There's no guessing, no second-guessing what people want from you." He looked up, meeting Nick's eyes, and there was a vulnerability there that made something in Nick's chest ache. "It's the only place I feel like I belong. Like I'm not just taking up space."
The words hung between them, raw and unexpected. Marc seemed to realize how much he'd said, and a flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks. He cleared his throat and took a hurried sip of his coffee, wincing as the heat hit his tongue. "Sorry," he muttered, not meeting Nick's gaze. "That's... probably more than you wanted to hear over breakfast."
He set the mug down and forced a grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. His thumb traced the rim of the mug in a nervous, circular motion, and he shifted in his seat, the scrape of his chair against the floor seeming too loud in the quiet café. "I've never told anyone that before," he said, the words spilling out like he was surprised by them himself. A breath of a laugh escaped him, but it was fragile, almost apologetic. "Don't know why I'm telling you. But I feel safe talking to you about it. Don't know why."
He shook his head, as if to dismiss the moment, but his gaze lingered on Nick's, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or understanding. The vulnerability in his pale blue eyes was a stark contrast to the powerful frame that had seemed so intimidating just hours ago. And in that small, sunlit café, with the steam curling between them, Nick realized that Marc was not the simple jock he'd first assumed. Beneath the muscle and the bravado, there was a depth that had been waiting to be seen.
Nick stayed quiet, letting the words settle between them.
Marc looked up, his pale eyes meeting Nick's with an openness that felt fragile. "I've never told anyone that before." A breath of a laugh. "But I feel safe talking to you about it. Don't know why."
Nick's chest tightened. "I'm glad you did," he said, and meant it. Marc's face lit up, the vulnerability melting into something warm and open. His smile was genuine, the kind that seemed to crack through the morning haze like sunlight through a window, revealing white teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes.
"So," Marc said, leaning back in his chair, his knee brushing Nick's under the table again. "Tell me about you. How's life at the uni? What are you studying?"
Nick exhaled, grateful for the lighter turn. "Biology. I'm in my third year, specializing in... well, I'm not entirely sure yet. Maybe genetic engineering. The whole code of life thing—it's fascinating, even if it sounds like I'm trying to build a dinosaur in my dorm room."
Marc laughed, but it wasn't mocking. "Nah, that's seriously cool. I flunked bio twice before I dropped it. Couldn't keep all the Latin names straight." He shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "What do you do with that? After uni, I mean."
"Research, probably. Or maybe something in biotech." Nick shrugged, wrapping his hands around his mug. "I'm not entirely sure yet. Still figuring it out."
Marc nodded, his eyes attentive, genuinely interested. "That's honest. Most people pretend they've got it all mapped out." He tilted his head, studying Nick. "You ever think about the big stuff? Like, what's the point of it all? Or is that too philosophical for a jock like me?"
Nick smiled, the question catching him off guard. "I think about it more than I should. It's part of why I love biology—the deeper you dig, the more you realize how much we don't know. There's this whole universe inside a single cell, and we're just scratching the surface."
Marc's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze intense but warm. "I never thought of it like that. I guess I always saw science as just... facts. Formulas." He paused, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug again. "I'd like to hear more about it sometime. If you'd let me."
The conversation flowed easily after that—Marc asking about Nick's favorite courses, Nick asking about Marc's baseball season, the rhythm of their voices settling into something comfortable. Marc listened as well as he spoke, his eyes tracking Nick's face, his nods thoughtful, his laughter easy. He asked follow-up questions that showed he was actually paying attention, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
By the time their cups were empty, the morning had warmed, and Nick realized he hadn't thought about Adam once in the last twenty minutes. Marc checked his phone and sighed. "I should head back. I have to shower. I figure out that I still have a lot of things to do before the end of the week-end."
They stepped out into the sunlight, the warmth already promising a hot afternoon. The streets were waking up—a jogger with a golden retriever, a woman unlocking her bike, the distant rumble of a delivery truck.
Adam's apartment was only a few blocks from the café, and Marc's place was in the same direction. They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. The morning sun was climbing higher now, casting long shadows across the pavement, and the air was beginning to warm.
"You know," Marc said, breaking the comfortable quiet, his voice carrying that easy, curious tone he'd had in the café, "I've been meaning to ask someone about the new season of Jujutsu Kaisen. I saw the trailer, and I can't tell if it's going to be insane or if they're just hyping it up."
Nick's eyebrows shot up. He turned his head to look at Marc, genuinely surprised. "Wait—you watch anime?"
Marc grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Surprised?" He laughed, a little self-conscious. "I know, I know. Not exactly the jock stereotype. But I got into it during high school. A teammate showed me Hunter x Hunter, and I was hooked. The whole Chimera Ant arc? That was something else."
Nick felt a grin spreading across his face, unexpected and warm. "No way. I love Hunter x Hunter. The Chimera Ant arc is one of the best things I've ever watched. The character development, the stakes—it's incredible."
Marc's eyes lit up. "Right? I still think about Meruem and Komugi. That ending... I wasn't ready." He shook his head, a playful grimace on his face. "It wrecked me."
"Same," Nick admitted. "I was a mess for a week."
They walked a few steps in sync, the conversation picking up a rhythm that matched their stride. Marc gestured with his hand as he spoke, animated now. "And the new chapter announcement? Finally. I've been waiting forever. I hope they don't drag it out. Togashi owes us."
Nick laughed, the sound bright in the quiet street. "Tell me about it. I was starting to think we'd never see the end of the Dark Continent arc. My roommate jokes that I'll be retired before it finishes."
Marc snorted. "Your roommate's not wrong." He glanced at Nick, a playful glint in his pale blue eyes. "So what else do you watch? Any guilty pleasures?"
Nick considered for a moment, kicking a stray pebble off the path. "I mean... I've been rewatching Attack on Titan lately. I know it's basic, but the first season still holds up. Plus, the soundtrack? Unreal."
"Unreal is an understatement," Marc said, nodding emphatically. He shows a video on his phone. "I have that track on my playlist. It's perfect for running. Gets the adrenaline going."
"You put anime music in your workout playlist?" Nick teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Marc shrugged, unashamed. "Don't knock it 'til you try it. Next time we run, I'm putting on the Guts' Theme from Berserk. You'll be sprinting like a demon."
Nick laughed, shaking his head. "I'll hold you to that."
They reached the corner where their paths would diverge—Adam's apartment building just visible down the street, Marc's place a few blocks beyond. Marc paused, turning to face Nick fully. His smile had softened, the playful energy settling into something more earnest.
"This was nice," Marc said, his voice quiet but sincere. "Running. The coffee. Talking about anime of all things. I didn't think—" He paused, ran a hand through his damp hair. "I'm glad we ran into each other."
Nick's chest felt warm, and he didn't quite know what to do with it. He met Marc's gaze and held it. "Yeah. Me too."
Marc's grin returned, a little shy around the edges. "We should do it again sometime. The run, I mean. And maybe more bad movie recommendations."
"Deal," Nick said, and the word felt easy, right.
They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the morning light pooling between them. Then Marc gave a small wave and turned, jogging lightly down the street toward his apartment.
Nick watched him go, the sound of birds and distant traffic filling the space he left behind. When Marc disappeared around the corner, Nick let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and turned toward Adam's building, his mind spinning with the memory of pale blue eyes and an easy laugh.
Nick climbed the stairs to Adam's apartment, his legs still humming with the residual endorphins of the run. He pushed open the door quietly, expecting to find Adam still dead to the world, sprawled across the mattress like a starfish.
Instead, Adam had shifted.
He was now half-curled on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, his face pressed into the crook of his elbow. A sliver of morning light fell across his bare back, illuminating the faint red marks from the sheets. His breathing was still deep and even, but there was a small furrow between his brows, as if even in sleep, the hangover was beginning to stir.
Nick paused in the doorway, a soft warmth settling in his chest. He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. Adam stirred slightly, a grumble escaping his lips, but didn't wake.
"Hey," Nick said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Adam's forehead. "I'm back."
Adam's nose wrinkled. He groaned, a low, pained sound, and cracked one eye open. "Mmph. What time is it?"
"Just past nine."
The eye closed again. "Why."
Nick smiled. "I went for a run. Brought you the gift of hydration." He held up a bottle of water and a single ibuprofen tablet he'd grabbed from the bathroom.
Adam made a sound that might have been appreciation or might have been agony. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright, squinting against the light like a man emerging from a cave. His hair was a disaster. His skin was sallow. He looked, to put it kindly, wrecked.
"Worth it," he croaked, taking the water and the pill. "But I think my head's filing a formal complaint."
