Friday night vanished under beer, whiskey, and fried finger foods before Bryce, Travis, and Chris returned to the hotel. At almost two in the morning, the men tried being quiet, but Chris was grossly sobbing about how Dylan and he were meant to be together; Travis, meanwhile, was trying to suppress his giggling made all the funnier by inebriation.

Travis was the furthest gone, his fits of laughter threatening to wake the entire wing of the hotel. He forgot which room he occupied, wandered into a darkened room, and crashed down on the nearest empty bed.

Chris was also pretty far gone. As he rediscovered that night, Chris was not suited to drinking. After two pints and egged on by Travis and Bryce to doing a further five more, the two men ended the night by needing to pry Chris down from a pub’s countertop, telling him to stop singing Aerosmith. His foggy mind meant that he also forgot which room he occupied, so Chris wandered into a darkened room and missed the bed, falling asleep as soon as he hit the floor.

Bryce was the designated sober man, although he didn’t want to be. He drank three beers and then spent the night watching over his friends as they fell into drunkenness. His mind only a little foggy, Bryce also forgot what room he occupied, so after sending the two to bed, Bryce fumbled with the remaining keycard to open the door that hadn’t been unlocked.

Bryce had enjoyed himself, though; he ended up getting two Potential’s numbers and watched his friends make fools of themselves, which he got on video.

“Oh, shhhit,” he whispered, as the door behind him clicked shut. Chris had insisted on bringing back something for Dylan to eat, and wouldn’t leave the fourth pub until he had something to give Dylan. Bryce loudly clicked his teeth together, deciding to just give Dylan the soggy leftovers tomorrow morning.

He kicked off his shoes, finding the desk light and the wall sconces by the beds were on, something the hotel had done to each room to set its occupants up for a cozy night in.

Bryce sniffed before realising that his suitcase was gone from its place under the window. ‘Oh shit.’

Travis had gone into Chris’s shared room with Amber, who was already asleep.

Chris had gone into Bryce’s shared room with Travis.

And Dylan was asleep at his computer at the desk, dressed in pajamas and hunched over by an opened pack of Revels, its contents gone. Under the soft hum of the desk light, Dylan looked peaceful, but only for a moment. Through his pajama shirt, his green Glow shone through unobstructed, producing a slight frown as his cheek dug into the keyboard. Dylan stirred nervously for a moment before the tinted light vanished.

Rather than do the sensible thing – leave the room and get a spare keycard from reception – Bryce whispered, “Fuck” three times, placed down the soggy food and knocked on the shared wall between them, whispering in an attempt to catch a passed-out Chris’s ear.

Bryce didn’t realise that he woke up Dylan while trying to wake up Chris.

Dylan couldn’t tell if this was a dream or something that was actually happening. His first question to the man three years his senior was, “How drunk are you?”

The sudden sound that wasn’t produced by Bryce made him jump. He looked down at the web designer before replying, “I…I’m not that drunk.”

Dylan sat up, his arms sore. Eyes heavy, he added, “You woke me up.”

Bryce shrugged and waved his hand. “Then just go back to sleep.” He returned to tapping his fist against the wall, hoping to hear a response from the other side.

Dylan rubbed his eyes and stood up, his legs shaking. “Bryce, I can’t just go back to sleep.”

“Sure you can,” Bryce told him almost. “It’s just like…” He tilted his head to the side, placed his hands together, put them on his face, and closed his eyes. After three seconds of his eyes closed, Bryce straightened up and shrugged. “It’s that easy.”

Dylan, dumbfounded by the response, stared at the man. “Bryce, it’s late. And I, honestly, don’t have any tolerance for someone who can…just…dismiss insomnia.” Dylan paused, rubbing his hand over his face as he woke up. “It’s like you’re saying ‘get over it’ to someone with emotional trauma. That’s not how it works.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Bryce shouted, stepping away from the wall.

Dylan shushed him. “Then how did you mean it?”

“I-I meant that you should…” At a loss for words, Bryce decided to showcase Chris’ thoughtfulness. “Here,” he said, taking the bag from the floor and holding it out to Dylan. “Chris got this for you.”

Dylan slapped it out of his hands, the now cold, greasy food missing the bed and falling into the space between the two full-sized mattresses. “I told you I didn’t need anything. I was fine on my own.” His eyes darted to the bag and its spilled contents before returning to Bryce. Dylan’s fingers tapped against the desk. “But I want to know how you meant it.”

Bryce’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like an insult or something!”

Dylan shushed him again and stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between the two. “Bryce, I can’t just ‘go back to sleep’. Do you know how hard it is for me just to get to sleep? I’m now going to spend the rest of the night trying to figure out how I got to sleep in the first place.”

“Dylan, I’m sorry, okay? It–it’s late, I’m drunk, and I want to lie down,” Bryce finished, dropping his hands to his sides and his gaze to the floor. “Okay?”

He groaned. “…okay.” Dylan gestured to the mess of food between the beds. “But please clean that up before you go. I don’t want to step on it first thing in the morning.” Bryce shuffled his foot against the carpeted floor. “Oh, God. What?” Dylan asked.

“I, uh…” Bryce gestured to the mess on the floor. “That’s the least of your concerns right now.”

Dylan cocked his head slightly, considering Bryce’s statement for a moment before he sighed again, this time one that droned on from mental and physical exhaustion. “You’re not that drunk, are you?” Bryce didn’t answer. “You were the designated sober guy, weren’t you?”

“You know, you’re a lot nicer when you’ve slept a little.”

“Bryce…”

Bryce nodded sheepishly. “We…didn’t remember what rooms we were in.”

“How shitfaced was Travis? Or Chris?” But before Bryce could answer, Dylan put up his hand. “Let me rephrase: Is Travis puking in the toilet right now, and is Chris passed out on the floor?”

“Why do you care about them?”

“Because I know that social interaction is crucial to human existence. And I went out drinking with them a few times. How many pints did they drink?”

“Chris drank two, and Travis had three,” he replied, struggling to speak coherently rather than slurring.

Dylan crossed his arms and glared, stepping closer. “I’m thinking Chris had seven and Travis had...maybe eleven. And Travis is a terrible drinker as is.”

Bryce gulped. “Chris had eight.”

“Did you do this, or did Travis?” Bryce pursed his lips, eyes dropping to the floor. An infuriated, “Dammit,” slipped from Dylan’s lips. He took the little folder the keycards came in and headed for the door, turning the bolt in the door to keep him from getting locked out. Two minutes later, he returned, looking pissed with him. “Chris was passed out on the floor, and Travis threw up on the bed.”

“I-I…” Bryce swallowed. “I-I helped them to bed, I swear.”

“Really?” Dylan asked, eyebrows rising on his face, breath becoming heavy. “Because…I…I don’t have any real reason to believe you.”

Bryce could feel the condensation between his fingers. “Dylan, just tell me what to d – ”

“No. Bryce, please. I want you gone now.”

“Dylan – ”

It was that moment when the hotel’s lights went out.