Willow snuggled into the yellow, woolen scarf his dad had knitted for him after wrapping it around his neck and straightening one of his many ugly Christmas sweaters.

It gave him enough folds to groan quietly into, the embarrassment over his stunt catching up to him as he cranked up his apartment heating, a mound of large, and hopefully warm, clothes in his arms to give to the beach guitarist that had saved his life.

He could not believe what he had done, getting drunk and thinking going to swim was a good idea when he couldn't even swim. He knew he was stressed with college but never thought himself suicidal. If it weren't for the other man, he would have died.

Willow stopped walking and stood in front of his mom's leather couches as that truth rang thoroughly in his mind. He could have died all because he wanted to drink and relax for a night instead of work on that damn essay.

If his parents had heard about it, they would have panicked and taken him back home in New England in seconds, making him both glad and uncomfortable that the cab had taken to his bribe. He was feeling guilty because the beach guitarist seemed genuinely worried.

The thought of him made Willow groan again, embarrassment back. That was not how he wanted to meet the guy with a voice that relaxed him in seconds.

A heavy thud snapped him out of his thoughts, Willow dropping the clothes in his arms as he ran towards the front door hallway and nearly screamed when he saw the beach guitarist topless and flat on the wooden floor.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled as he got on his knees and turned the guy over, panic increasing when he saw the man’s lips had turned blue.

He sighed out of relief when he saw the man’s chest move up and down, a sign that he was still breathing though barely.

Willow lifted that thin man from under his armpits and dragged him to the couch, groaning while doing so. For a skinny person, the beach guitarist was way too tall and way too heavy.

After he splayed the guitarist over the longer, middle sofa, Willow ran back to the pile of clothes, nearly tripping on his faux rug, and ran back to his rescuer.

“Wake up. Please wake up,” Willow begged, stretching out his words as his trembling hands fumbling with a sweater.

He made the guitarist sit up, yelping when the man slumped forward with their forehead on his shoulder. Willow heard a groan and gently pressed him back to rest on the sofa, feeling some of his nerves settle when the guitarist blinked slowly.

“Hey,” Willow said softly, letting him go for a moment to help get him in the sweater, “Hey I need to get you in some warm clothes.”

The guitarist mumbled something Willow could not decipher, and he sighed. The guy could barely sit up without swaying from left to right, so there was little doubt that he knew what Willow was saying.

He wrapped the guitarist in jackets and a blanket, making sure he was secured and warm, though when he got to the guy’s wet jeans, Willow grimaced, those nerves returning at full force.

Just get it over with before he freezes to death! Willow took a deep breath and began to unzip the jeans, quickly pulling them down, eyes open as he expected the guy to have underwear on.

He was wrong.

“Mother of cheese,” he said, his voice higher and cheeks getting hotter and hotter as he put some sweatpants on the guitarist, careful not to touch anything with his eyes downcast. “Th-that wasn't so bad.”

“You can look but can't touch, good sir,” the guitarist slurred, and Willow looked up with wide eyes, shocked.

The fuck you just say?

The guy merely blinked at him before falling to his side and pulled the blanket over his legs. His soft snores filled up the large suite, and Willow slumped on the floor and sighed heavily, running his hand through his mound of long and wet strands of coily hair.

What a fucking night.