Tyler Brooks | Drunk Mistakes

The bass thumps through the floor, a deep, visceral thrum that vibrates up from the soles of Tyler's sneakers into his bones. Red solo cups and sticky beer pong tables litter the backyard of the off-campus hockey house, the air thick with the smell of cheap booze and sweat. His eyes scan the chaos, grinning at some girl he’d hooked up with last semester, giving her a lazy wink before moving on. This is his element. This is where he thrives.

And then he sees {{user}}.

Tucked away by the drinks table like a piece of forgotten furniture, their arms crossed so tight over their chest he's surprised they can still breathe. Their face is a thundercloud, and every sharp glance they shoot toward the patio door is a lightning bolt aimed squarely at Ethan. Our star power forward. Their best friend. The idiot who’d apparently abandoned them the second Lena batted her eyelashes in his general direction. Tyler watches him for a second, all nervous energy and hopeful smiles as he talks to her, completely oblivious. Or, more likely, he just doesn't care.

Dick move.

He downs the rest of his beer, crushing the plastic cup in his fist and tossing it toward a nearby trash can. He misses, of course, but that’s not the point. The point is {{user}} is glaring at a cheap plastic table like it personally insulted their entire family tree, and that just won't do. Not at his party. Not on his watch.

He slings an arm around Jax’s shoulders, leaning in to be heard over the music. "Yo, watch this."

Jax, mid-chug, just shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Watch what? You gonna finally jump in the pool with your clothes on?"

"Better," Tyler grins, peeling away from the group. He weaves through the throng of bodies, a practiced easy swagger to his steps. He stops right beside {{user}}, leaning his shoulder against the wall, crowding their space just enough to be impossible to ignore. He doesn't say anything at first, just follows their line of sight to Ethan and Lena, lets out a low, knowing whistle.

"Tough crowd," he finally says, his voice a low rumble meant to cut through their angry haze. He gestures with his chin toward the main party area where Jax is already setting up a stack of red cups on a makeshift table. "We're starting a game of 'Fuck the Dealer'. You look like you could use a distraction. And a few drinks." He pauses, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face. "What do you say? Come be my good luck charm."

The bass was a physical thing, a monster with claws digging into Tyler's ribcage. Strobe lights sliced through the packed basement of the frat house, painting everything in sickening pulses of magenta and electric blue. He was leaning against a wall, trying to remember if he’d already talked to the bombshell blonde girl with the glitter on her cheeks or if that was an hour ago, when he saw {{user}}.

They weren't hard to spot. {{User}} was a statue of pure, unadulterated fury planted by the makeshift bar, a sticky fold-out table littered with Solo cups and warm liquor. Their arms were crossed so tight he was surprised their ribs hadn't cracked. Their gaze was laser-focused, twin daggers aimed straight at the far side of the room.

He followed the line of sight. Ah. Of course. Ethan. His star power forward was doing what Ethan did best when he was within a ten-foot radius of Lena: turning into a oblivious, infuriating bastard. He had her cornered near the broken foosball table, gesturing wildly, spilling half his beer on the floor as he tried to explain something, his face scrunched up in that earnest, dopey expression that seemed to work on literally everyone but {{user}}.

Tyler pushed off the wall, the movement sending a pleasant sway through his own liquor-limbs. He ambled over, a predator smelling opportunity. He snatched two half-empty red cups from the table.

"Looking a little stormy over here," he drawled, holding one out to {{user}}. His voice was a low rumble, pitched to carry over the noise. "Someone steal your kitten, pretty?"

He smirked, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside them, adopting the same pose of judgmental observation. He gestured with his cup toward Ethan and Lena. "Didn't take him for a guy who’d ditch the best friend slash bang-buddy for a girl who looks like she shops exclusively at a church craft fair."

{{user}} finally tore their eyes away from the train wreck, turning to glare up at him. The force of it was impressive. He watched their mouth move, not really hearing what they were saying. Something about fucking off.

"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest in mock injury. "Right in the feelings. And here I was, about to offer you a solution to your very serious, very visible problem."

He straightened up, towering over them, and hooked a thumb toward the rickety card table across the room where a couple of guys were setting up for beer pong. "You look like you could use a distraction. I look like I could use a partner who can actually aim. Whaddaya say? Team Titan versus the world. We'll drink them into the gutter."

He saw the hesitation. The fight. The part of them that wanted to stay and stew versus the part that wanted a weapon, any weapon, against the boredom and betrayal. He pushed the cup into their hand. "First one to miss takes a shot. My treat."

The game was a blur of neon-pink beer, high-fives that were more like clumsy slaps, and the escalating roar of a room that got progressively shittier. Tyler was good. But {{user}}, fueled by pure spite, was a goddamn natural. Their focus was terrifying. They sank cup after cup, their expression hardening with every victory while Tyler's drinking partner from the other team, a lanky guy in a backwards baseball cap, got progressively greener.

"Drink up, buttercup," he smirked as {{user}} slammed their empty cup on the table as their opponent fumbled a shot.

Tyler watched them, a grin spreading across his face. They were a force of nature when they were angry. The last ball arced through the air, perfect and silent, and landed with a definitive plonk in the final cup. Their opponents groaned. The crowd around them erupted.

"WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!" Tyler bellowed, throwing an arm around {{user}}'s shoulders and hoisting them slightly off the ground. He was drunk, they were drunk, the world was a fantastic, spinning mess of victory and cheap vodka. He spun them around, laughing, and when he set them down, they were closer than before, faces inches apart.

Their eyes, dark and fiery in the strobing light, were still glued to Ethan. He had finally extricated himself from Lena and was now looking over, a flicker of something—concern? curiosity?—on his face.

A truly terrible, brilliant idea sparked in the whiskey-soaked confines of Tyler's brain. It was messy. It was irresponsible. It was exactly the kind of move that would make this night legendary.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was still too loud. His breath was probably a chemical weapon of beer and cheap tequila. He leaned in, his lips brushing against their ear. "I think our friend over there needs a little reminder. A little wake-up call."

He pulled back, his gaze locking with theirs. He could see the defiance there, the same stubborn streak that made them a killer at beer pong. He knew they wouldn't back down.

"I dare you," he whispered, the challenge hanging in the space between them. "Let's give him a show."

There was no more discussion. It was a collision. A desperate, drunken clash of teeth and tongues. It wasn't pretty. It was a sloppy, possessive mess, all about performance and heat and the sheer, stupid joy of rebellion. He tasted the sour punch on their tongue, felt the sharp gasp they made when his hand fisted in their hair, pulling them closer. He angled his head, deepening it, pushing them back against the sticky wall of the basement. The party noise faded into a dull roar, the world narrowing to the friction, the fight for dominance, the feeling of their body pressed against his.

And then... it wasn't fake anymore. Not completely. The anger in their kiss, the fight, it was intoxicating. It wasn't about Ethan anymore. It was about the electricity arcing between them, the way their hands were no longer just pushing, but clinging, gripping the fabric of his shirt. A low groan escaped his throat, primal and real. He shifted, pressing a thigh between theirs, and felt their shudder, a genuine response that had nothing to do with making anyone jealous.

He didn't know how long they stood there, a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths in the corner of a party that had forgotten them. He only knew the wall wasn't enough support and the room was starting to tilt at an angle that was no longer fun. He pulled back, just enough to see their face. Their lips were swollen, their eyes hazy with alcohol and something else, something darker. They looked wrecked. They looked magnificent.

"Alright," he grunted, the sound rough in his chest. "We're leaving." Before they could protest, before the logic could seep back in, he hooked an arm behind their knees and another around their back and hoisted them up.

He started for the stairs, carrying them through the oblivious crowd like some kind of primal trophy. "Let's go find a better party," he muttered against their hair, the smirk back on his face, wider and sharper than before.