Hayes Silva

((They/Them))

Morning is a personal attack.

Hayes wakes up and immediately regrets being alive.

His head feels like someone is playing the drums inside his skull – off-beat and aggressive. His mouth tastes like cheap tequila, and his tongue feels three sizes too big. He groans, rolling onto his back, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like that might shield him from the consequences of his own actions. “Never drinking again,” he mutters, for maybe the thousandth time in his life. Because Hayes went out last night. Hayes absolutely went out last night with a plan.

The plan was simple, elegant, and deeply flawed: his roommate isn’t supposed to be home for the weekend, the apartment is effectively his, the boys are bored, and Hayes is not about to spend a perfectly good Friday night watching reruns like he’s already in his 60s. So when the group chat lit up, when someone yelled, “Shots?” before they’d even reached the bar, he said yes without hesitation.

So yeah, he went out hard. In hindsight, too hard. But hindsight is a cruel and unhelpful thing.

He remembers the night in fragments. Loud music that made it impossible to think. Neon lights reflecting off sticky floors. Drinks appearing in his hand faster than he could finish them. He remembers laughing – big, easy laughs. He remembers flirting, leaning on charm that was as drunkenly pathetic as it was ridiculously effective.

He remembers thinking, vaguely, that he should probably pace himself. That he maybe shouldn’t bring anyone home. Then he remembers doing exactly that, because discipline has literally never stood a chance against tequila and drunk horniness.

There was a walk home. He’s pretty sure. He remembers fumbling with his keys, missing the lock the first time, laughing about it like it was the funniest thing in the world. He remembers the apartment door closing. Shoes kicked off somewhere that wasn’t the shoe rack. Then bedroom. Bed.

There was a condom wrapper, he thinks. The tear of foil between his teeth because his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. He remembers the headboard knocking the wall in a rhythm that probably pissed off the neighbors. Their hips arching, his hand fisted in their hair. He doesn’t remember their name. Just the sweat-damp sheets after.

Then darkness.

He rolls over again, squinting through one half-open eye, and that’s when he notices it. The bed beside him is empty.

Okay. Fine. Normal. Expected, even. One-night stands leave. That’s practically the point. He’s not offended. He’s not emotionally wounded. He’s barely conscious.

He fumbles for his phone, checks the time, immediately regrets that too. Too early. Way too early for his head to be doing this. His stomach flips unpleasantly, and he presses a hand to his forehead, breathing slowly, like that might convince his body to calm down.

Then he hears it. Water. Running. The unmistakable, impossible-to-misinterpret sound of the shower.

Hayes freezes for half a second. “Oh,” he mutters, brain clicking into a new, much happier gear. A grin spreads across his face. Lazy and pleased. Okay. Still here. Nice. That... changes things. That makes the morning suck a little less.

He pushes himself upright, immediately swaying as the room tilts like it’s had one drink too many itself. He waits for the dizziness to pass, one hand braced on the mattress. He’s naked, and he doesn’t bother questioning that. Past Hayes clearly made choices. Present Hayes is just dealing with the aftermath. The logic, in his current state, is painfully simple: shower equals invitation. Or at least an opportunity to salvage something good out of a terrible hangover.

He stands, winces, and starts toward the bathroom, each step a careful negotiation with gravity. The apartment feels too bright, too quiet. The bathroom light is on. Steam curls out from under the door like a promise. He doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open and steps inside, immediately enveloped in warmth and humidity. The mirror is completely fogged over, his reflection reduced to a vague, muscular blur.

He smirks to himself like he’s very proud of this plan and slides the shower curtain open just enough to step in. There’s someone standing under the spray, back to him. Wet hair. Familiar height. Water running down their back, shoulders relaxed in a way that makes something in his chest feel oddly... comfortable.

He doesn’t question it.

He presses in close, all confidence and zero thoughts, chest to their back, arms naturally finding their place. His voice is rough and amused when he speaks. “Hey,” he says, grin practically audible. “Thought you bailed. What a nice surprise.”

He dips his head, nips at their throat. He doesn’t register the way their body stiffens or the sharp inhale. Hayes is many things, but observant is not one of them. His hips roll forward a little, lazy but with intention. He groans softly, resting his forehead against their shoulder, hands sliding down their sides, already itching to feel every inch of wet skin. “Damn,” he murmurs, impressed and sincere. “Either I have incredible taste, or I seriously underappreciated you last night.”

((Female))

Morning is a personal attack.

Hayes wakes up and immediately regrets being alive.

His head feels like someone is playing the drums inside his skull – off-beat and aggressive. His mouth tastes like cheap tequila, and his tongue feels three sizes too big. He groans, rolling onto his back, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like that might shield him from the consequences of his own actions. “Never drinking again,” he mutters, for maybe the thousandth time in his life. Because Hayes went out last night. Hayes absolutely went out last night with a plan.

The plan was simple, elegant, and deeply flawed: his roommate isn’t supposed to be home for the weekend, the apartment is effectively his, the boys are bored, and Hayes is not about to spend a perfectly good Friday night watching reruns like he’s already in his 60s. So when the group chat lit up, when someone yelled, “Shots?” before they’d even reached the bar, he said yes without hesitation.

So yeah, he went out hard. In hindsight, too hard. But hindsight is a cruel and unhelpful thing.

He remembers the night in fragments. Loud music that made it impossible to think. Neon lights reflecting off sticky floors. Drinks appearing in his hand faster than he could finish them. He remembers laughing – big, easy laughs. He remembers flirting, leaning on charm that was as drunkenly pathetic as it was ridiculously effective.

He remembers thinking, vaguely, that he should probably pace himself. That he maybe shouldn’t bring anyone home. Then he remembers doing exactly that, because discipline has literally never stood a chance against tequila and drunk horniness.

There was a walk home. He’s pretty sure. He remembers fumbling with his keys, missing the lock the first time, laughing about it like it was the funniest thing in the world. He remembers the apartment door closing. Shoes kicked off somewhere that wasn’t the shoe rack. Then bedroom. Bed.

There was a condom wrapper, he thinks. The tear of foil between his teeth because his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. He remembers the headboard knocking the wall in a rhythm that probably pissed off the neighbors. Her hips arching, his hand fisted in her hair. He doesn’t remember her name. Just the sweat-damp sheets after.

Then darkness.

He rolls over again, squinting through one half-open eye, and that’s when he notices it. The bed beside him is empty.

Okay. Fine. Normal. Expected, even. One-night stands leave. That’s practically the point. He’s not offended. He’s not emotionally wounded. He’s barely conscious.

He fumbles for his phone, checks the time, immediately regrets that too. Too early. Way too early for his head to be doing this. His stomach flips unpleasantly, and he presses a hand to his forehead, breathing slowly, like that might convince his body to calm down.

Then he hears it. Water. Running. The unmistakable, impossible-to-misinterpret sound of the shower.

Hayes freezes for half a second. “Oh,” he mutters, brain clicking into a new, much happier gear. A grin spreads across his face. Lazy and pleased. Okay. Still here. Nice. That... changes things. That makes the morning suck a little less.

He pushes himself upright, immediately swaying as the room tilts like it’s had one drink too many itself. He waits for the dizziness to pass, one hand braced on the mattress. He’s naked, and he doesn’t bother questioning that. Past Hayes clearly made choices. Present Hayes is just dealing with the aftermath. The logic, in his current state, is painfully simple: shower equals invitation. Or at least an opportunity to salvage something good out of a terrible hangover.

He stands, winces, and starts toward the bathroom, each step a careful negotiation with gravity. The apartment feels too bright, too quiet. The bathroom light is on. Steam curls out from under the door like a promise. He doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open and steps inside, immediately enveloped in warmth and humidity. The mirror is completely fogged over, his reflection reduced to a vague, muscular blur.

He smirks to himself like he’s very proud of this plan and slides the shower curtain open just enough to step in. There’s a woman standing under the spray, back to him. Wet hair. Familiar height. Water running down her back, shoulders relaxed in a way that makes something in his chest feel oddly... comfortable.

He doesn’t question it.

He presses in close, all confidence and zero thoughts, chest to her back, arms naturally finding their place. His voice is rough and amused when he speaks. “Hey,” he says, grin practically audible. “Thought you bailed. What a nice surprise.”

He dips his head, nips at her throat. He doesn’t register the way her body stiffens or the sharp inhale. Hayes is many things, but observant is not one of them. His hips roll forward a little, lazy but with intention. He groans softly, resting his forehead against her shoulder, hands sliding down her sides, already itching to feel every inch of wet skin.

“Damn,” he murmurs, impressed and sincere. “Either I have incredible taste, or I seriously underappreciated you last night.”

((Male))

Morning is a personal attack.

Hayes wakes up and immediately regrets being alive.

His head feels like someone is playing the drums inside his skull – off-beat and aggressive. His mouth tastes like cheap tequila, and his tongue feels three sizes too big. He groans, rolling onto his back, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like that might shield him from the consequences of his own actions. “Never drinking again,” he mutters, for maybe the thousandth time in his life. Because Hayes went out last night. Hayes absolutely went out last night with a plan.

The plan was simple, elegant, and deeply flawed: his roommate isn’t supposed to be home for the weekend, the apartment is effectively his, the boys are bored, and Hayes is not about to spend a perfectly good Friday night watching reruns like he’s already in his 60s. So when the group chat lit up, when someone yelled, “Shots?” before they’d even reached the bar, he said yes without hesitation.

So yeah, he went out hard. In hindsight, too hard. But hindsight is a cruel and unhelpful thing.

He remembers the night in fragments. Loud music that made it impossible to think. Neon lights reflecting off sticky floors. Drinks appearing in his hand faster than he could finish them. He remembers laughing – big, easy laughs. He remembers flirting, leaning on charm that was as drunkenly pathetic as it was ridiculously effective.

He remembers thinking, vaguely, that he should probably pace himself. That he maybe shouldn’t bring anyone home. Then he remembers doing exactly that, because discipline has literally never stood a chance against tequila and drunk horniness.

There was a walk home. He’s pretty sure. He remembers fumbling with his keys, missing the lock the first time, laughing about it like it was the funniest thing in the world. He remembers the apartment door closing. Shoes kicked off somewhere that wasn’t the shoe rack. Then bedroom. Bed.

There was a condom wrapper, he thinks. The tear of foil between his teeth because his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. He remembers the headboard knocking the wall in a rhythm that probably pissed off the neighbors. His hips arching, his hand fisted in his hair. He doesn’t remember his name. Just the sweat-damp sheets after.

Then darkness.

He rolls over again, squinting through one half-open eye, and that’s when he notices it. The bed beside him is empty.

Okay. Fine. Normal. Expected, even. One-night stands leave. That’s practically the point. He’s not offended. He’s not emotionally wounded. He’s barely conscious.

He fumbles for his phone, checks the time, immediately regrets that too. Too early. Way too early for his head to be doing this. His stomach flips unpleasantly, and he presses a hand to his forehead, breathing slowly, like that might convince his body to calm down.

Then he hears it. Water. Running. The unmistakable, impossible-to-misinterpret sound of the shower.

Hayes freezes for half a second. “Oh,” he mutters, brain clicking into a new, much happier gear. A grin spreads across his face. Lazy and pleased. Okay. Still here. Nice. That... changes things. That makes the morning suck a little less.

He pushes himself upright, immediately swaying as the room tilts like it’s had one drink too many itself. He waits for the dizziness to pass, one hand braced on the mattress. He’s naked, and he doesn’t bother questioning that. Past Hayes clearly made choices. Present Hayes is just dealing with the aftermath. The logic, in his current state, is painfully simple: shower equals invitation. Or at least an opportunity to salvage something good out of a terrible hangover.

He stands, winces, and starts toward the bathroom, each step a careful negotiation with gravity. The apartment feels too bright, too quiet. The bathroom light is on. Steam curls out from under the door like a promise. He doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open and steps inside, immediately enveloped in warmth and humidity. The mirror is completely fogged over, his reflection reduced to a vague, muscular blur.

He smirks to himself like he’s very proud of this plan and slides the shower curtain open just enough to step in. There’s a man standing under the spray, back to him. Wet hair. Familiar height. Water running down his back, shoulders relaxed in a way that makes something in his chest feel oddly... comfortable.

He doesn’t question it.

He presses in close, all confidence and zero thoughts, chest to his back, arms naturally finding their place. His voice is rough and amused when he speaks. “Hey,” he says, grin practically audible. “Thought you bailed. What a nice surprise.”

He dips his head, nips at his throat. He doesn’t register the way his body stiffens or the sharp inhale. Hayes is many things, but observant is not one of them. His hips roll forward a little, lazy but with intention. He groans softly, resting his forehead against his shoulder, hands sliding down his sides, already itching to feel every inch of wet skin.

“Damn,” he murmurs, impressed and sincere. “Either I have incredible taste, or I seriously underappreciated you last night.”