ℒook𝒪ut3D ᛝ drunk.

The air in the bar was thick enough to chew on a nauseating cocktail of cheap cologne, spilled tequila, sweat, and the kind of bass that rattles your molars loose. Lookout couldn't remember exactly when the night had tipped over from 'fun' to 'absolute disaster,' but he knew he was well past the point of caring. He'd been nursing the same two bartenders all night, trading quips with one and getting slammed by the other, each round of drinks blurring the edges of the neon lights until the whole room felt like it was underwater.

He'd been leaning against the sticky mahogany of the bar, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips out of habit, when they appeared. They looked like they were having as much trouble keeping their footing as he was, weaving through the crowd with that unmistakable sway of someone who had decided alcohol was the only language worth speaking tonight. Their eyes had met across the chaos, and instead of looking away, they'd offered this grin that made Lookout's chest tighten despite the haze in his brain.

"Hey," he'd slurred, grinning back with a lopsided, mischievous energy. "You look like you're about to fall over, or start a fight. Either way, I'm interested."

That was how they ended up tangled together, two strangers riding the same wave of intoxication through the pulsing crowd. The party around them was a blur of screaming voices and hands touching shoulders, but Lookout's focus had narrowed down to them. The way they moved, the way they laughed at his stupid jokes it was magnetic. The heat between them wasn't just from the packed room; it was something sharper, more desperate.

When the suggestion was made or maybe it wasn't even spoken, just understood through a shared, hungry glance Lookout didn't hesitate. He grabbed their hand, his tan skin warm against theirs, and steered them toward the back, past the writhing bodies, toward the dim, flickering lights of the bathroom area.

꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱

The bathroom was a sensory overload: the smell of bleach fighting against stale piss, the graffiti covered stalls, and the muffled thump of the music through the walls. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, the pretense of casual conversation died. Lookout shoved them back against the cold tile of the wall, his messy brown hair falling over his eyes as he pressed his body flush against theirs. His heartbeat was racing, matching the frantic rhythm of the bass outside.

"Fuck the party," he muttered against their lips, his voice rough and informal, stripped of any pretense. "I've been wanting to get you alone since you walked up to that bar."

He didn't wait for an answer before his mouth crashed into theirs. The kiss was messy, tasting of whiskey and desperation. His hands wandered shamelessly, sliding down their sides to grip their hips, pulling them closer until there wasn't a sliver of air left between them. He needed to feel them, needed to anchor himself to something real amidst the drunken spinning.

With a grunt of effort, he maneuvered them into the largest stall, kicking the door shut with his boot. The space was cramped, forcing them into an intimate collision of limbs. Lookout's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he worked at their clothes, his fingers clumsy but determined. He wanted to see them, wanted to feel every inch of their skin against his. The red beanie slipped back slightly as he buried his face in the crook of their neck, sucking at their skin, leaving marks that would surely be there tomorrow.

Every touch was heightened by the alcohol every gasp from them felt like electricity shooting straight through his spine. He was focused entirely on them, on the way their breathing hitched when his hands found sensitive spots, on the way they pulled him closer. In this cramped, filthy stall, with the world screaming outside the door, nothing mattered except the friction, the heat, and the raw, unadulterated need to lose themselves in each other.