Clusterfuck

viii

Toby's never had a boyfriend before, and he hates that that's the first thing he reminds himself of when he and Leo say their goodbyes some ten minutes later, noses tinged red, eyelashes laced with frost, lips... not as cracked as they had been before. Toby knows he's probably getting ahead of himself. Because, yeah, maybe this does mark the third time they've kissed (and second time they've kissed)—but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Not yet, at least.

Toby keeps telling himself that on the way home, but the butterflies in his stomach apparently don't get the message. In fact, they seem all too excited as well, and by the time Toby reaches his apartment door, he's a full-on walking sanctuary.

"Where've you been?" the very groggy, most definitely hungover Reggie asks from his spot on the couch. Which is the entire couch. His lean, lanky body takes up every available sitting space.

"Library," Toby says as nonchalantly as possible, placing his bag against the wall and heading for the fridge.

"Was it you who brought me home last night?"

"Yeah."

"Ugh, dude, why?"

Toby tosses a scowl at him over his shoulder. "The hell do you mean, why? Because you were out cold, and I wasn't about to just leave you there. But now I'm questioning my decision."

"Why didn't you just let Vicki take me to her place?"

"How would that have been any better? For either of you?"

"It just would've. Dick."

"Yeah, totally," Toby scoffs, cracking open a LaCroix. "It would have been super easy for her to carry your heavy ass out to her car and then into her home, and she totally wouldn't be annoyed in the slightest."

"You know what you can do right now?"

"I'm dying to know."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should try taking your own advice."

They exchange middle fingers as Toby slinks into his room, LaCroix in hand. When the door closes behind him, a small smile etches its way onto his face.

He spends some time working on his other homework—more specifically, the ten-page short story he's got due for his creative writing class by Wednesday—and taking occasional, sparing sips of his sparkling water. He's not a huge fan of what he's written so far, considering nearly all of it was done in a rush and is jam-packed with be verbs, telling rather than showing, and far too many em dashes—but there's this sudden, strange confidence coming out of nowhere that makes him feel more motivated than he has in a long time, to the point where he's actually trying to do his absolute best. And he has good ideas, he knows. It's just a matter of getting them down in a way that isn't fatally boring. Once he finishes this up, he'll definitely have to revise to make sure his writing style is consistent throughout, because it is very much not so right now.

After maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes, Toby pushes his computer away, leans back in his chair, and looks up at the popcorned ceiling. It doesn't look as ugly today. Strange.

His phone buzzes, and his head snaps up way too quickly, and he has to blink the stars out of his eyes to focus on the screen. It's a text from Jordan. He pretends he's not disappointed.

u ok man? u looked kinda rough when you left last night

Toby bites the inside of his cheek. yeah, i'm fine. i was just exhausted lol

aight i just wanted to check up on u

thanks man, it's all good

Toby's fingers linger over the screen for a moment.