YOU'RE AT A PARTY

“I know my limit!” He said, coming off more as a yelp than a statement. “I know my limit.” Quiter, now, the words tumbled from his mouth and onto the ears of anyone within earshot, which wasn’t a lot–the dining room was empty. Though, a stranger sat to his right, not nearly as gone as he was. He wasn’t even tipsy, if Marshall remembered correctly. He hadn’t taken a sip of anything but water all night.

They sat just barely beneath the edge of the dining table, right where the scratchy rug that lay under it met the floor. Marshall was hunched over, legs stuck out in front of him, while the stranger sat up straight with his legs crossed. While the rug was red, garish, and quite honestly, ugly, the floor was smooth, unblemished hardwood. He liked the floor.

A hand, gentle and warm, ran up and down his back. Marshall blinked slowly. This stranger was kind enough to keep him company while everyone else had gone. He remembered something being said about a smoke break, but Marshall, quite literally, couldn’t quite stand to join them–when he’d stood, he’d almost fallen over. So now he sat here, swiping his left hand over the floor, the smooth sensation delighting his brain.

“How much have you had?” The stranger asked. The room swirled as Marshall looked at him. He was met by pretty brown eyes, which sat in the middle of a peachy, angular face. His hair was brown, but darker than his eyes. It was short, but some of it swept over his forehead. In the back of his mind, a memory attempted to rear its head, but couldn’t break the surface. He’d seen this face before, but had no clue where.

Marshall hummed to himself. Raising his hand from the floor, he wobbled to the right. The stranger immediately moved his hand from Marshall’s back to his shoulder, stopping him from toppling over.

Marshall started counting on his fingers. “I had a Mojito, then two shots of rum after that, then…” He paused, staring at his fingers. His ring finger was missing. It had only been a week, but he shouldn’t have been surprised by his finger’s absence. Were he sober, he’d reminisce about never appreciating something until it was gone, or ponder the loneliness of losing something like a finger. Since he wasn’t, though, he only thought, Where’s my finger gone?

“Marshall?” The stranger knew his name. He blinked. How did he know?

“Sorry! I was just thinking…What’s the…what’s the one blended drink called? The strawberry one.”

The stranger huffed a laugh from his nose. “A Daquiri.”

“A Daiquiri! Yeah, I had one of those. And another shot. Then, the person making the drinks went home–”

“--Yes, I saw.”

“Yeah! Um, so I made one more drink, it’s,” Lowering his counting hand to the floor, he felt around for the cup he was starting so dearly to miss. The smoothness of the floor and the fuzziness of the ugly rug gave way to nothing but more of both. There was no cup. Whirling his head around, he glanced up at the table. The room shook when his eyes landed on the plastic red cup on the table above him. It sat there, taunting him. He had to have it.

He reached up, but the stranger placed a hand on his arm and, quite easily, lowered it. The stranger grabbed the cup and brought it down.

“This one?”

“Yeah, yeah! It’s, if I remember right, some vodka, Pepsi, and ginger ale.”

The stranger’s eyebrows furrowed and his mouth opened a little bit, as if he was about to question him. He closed his mouth quickly–Marshall figured he didn’t want to argue with someone as drunk as himself. Fair enough. He raised the cup to his nose, angular like his face, and sniffed. He coughed.

“That’s more vodka than anything.” He turned and put the cup back on the table.

Marshall wanted to know why, but instead, he said “‘S’why I’m not a bartender.” He laughed, a breathy little thing at the end of his sentence.

“You’ve had a lot. Are you okay?” The stranger asked. His little joke being steamrolled over like that tangled his good mood, contorting it into something melancholy and digging a pit in his stomach. He didn’t know why.

“Yeah! Yeah! I’m good!” He wasn’t.

“Alright! Just checking.”

The stranger’s mouth curved up, and a small, close-lipped smile was thrown his way. Marshall found he couldn’t tear his eyes away, the pit in his stomach dissolving much too fast.

He must’ve made a face, because the stranger then said: “Do you want me to stay here?”

“...Yes.”

The stranger nodded. His warm hand returned to Marshall’s back. Up and down his spine it went. Whoever this guy was, he was way too kind to him. It was nice, sitting on the floor with him. He might’ve been shaking, but he couldn’t tell for certain. Marshall turned his head away, the room turning.

There was a hallway in front of them, through which he could see the front door. It was made of some dark wood, with a square, frosted window seated in its upper half, displaying the night sky behind it. He couldn’t see the stars through it. Pity, he wanted to see the stars.

“Sorry you have to deal with my drunk ass.” He said, making a good attempt at staring through the little window in the door. Was that little fleck of white behind the window a star, or a streetlight?

“It’s fine,” The stranger was cheerful about the situation, or at the very least, trying to be nice. “Somebody’s got to be the designated driver.”

Marshall huffed. He didn’t have to drive anywhere, this party being only a block or two away from his apartment. Still, he appreciated the sentiment, so he said, “You’re smart.”

“I try my best.”

The front door opened. There was a streetlight behind it, but still no stars. A blonde girl staggered down the hallway. She stumbled close to the wall on her left, raising her hand to steady herself. She turned into the bathroom, pushing herself off the wall to enter, and closing the door with a slam.

“Yeesh,” Marshall let slip, “Hope she’s alright.”

He turned to the stranger, who stared down the hallway with his brow furrowed. “That didn’t look good. Will you be okay if I go check on her?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved him off.

The stranger patted him gently on the back, then got up. Marshall tilted his head up as he walked away, and God, this guy was tall. He was only probably a few inches taller, but from this spot on the floor, he towered over Marshall.

He knocked on the bathroom door, and a faint, groggy “Come iiiinn” came from behind it. He entered quickly, leaving the door open, and Marshall within earshot.

He rearranged himself, crossing his legs and slumping down so he could rest his chin on his right hand and his elbow on his knee.

“Is everything alright?” The stranger asked the girl, muffled through the wall.

“Yeah,” she sniffled loudly, a hint of humor in her voice, “Just threw up in the parking lot.”

Marshall grimaced. He had to make sure not to vomit, now. Whoever was hosting the party would probably feel way worse if two people puked instead of just one.

“Jesus, sorry. Do you need anything? Like, water or something?”

He needed to remember who this guy was, fast. They had to interact when he was sober, just to make sure the ache in his heart wasn’t an effect of his alcoholic concoction.

“Water, please,” The girl sounded like she was in a tin can, echoing. She was probably sticking her head over the toilet. “Thank you soooooo much, Steven.”

That was his name? Kind of boring, but, whatever.

A switch flipped in Marshall’s head, then, and turned on a lightbulb of a thought. Sitting up straight, the easy feeling of being drunk was flushed away by almost-sobriety and fiery embarrassment. He looked at his left hand, where his finger used to be. He’d lost it in the machinery of some plane he was trying to repair, and was taken to an on-site medical station by the pilot. Who was some guy named Steven.

Steven the stranger came back into the hallway. Before he could go do the right thing of helping this drunk girl, Marshall needed answers. He was on his feet and across the room in seconds, grabbing the poor guy by the shoulder.

“Did my finger get torn off in your ship?” He asked, staring intently into his eyes.

Steven blinked. “Yes?” He paused. “Wait, did you forget?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” His hands were suddenly sweaty. “I think I’m drunk.”

“You are.”

“Yeah. Were you hanging out with me because you feel bad?”

He sputtered. “No! No, no. I…”

“It’s okay if you were. Not your fault for my finger, though.”

He didn’t mean to say that. The other man’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and his shoulders slumped, just a little.

“...Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Marshall swallowed. Bile was rising up his throat. “No problem.”

They stood there for a moment, Marshall with his hand on Steven’s shoulder. He wondered what the hell to do now, or if he should just back away and out of the house, all the way to his apartment and never come back out. It sounded like a damn good plan.

Steven cleared his throat. “I need to, um, get her,” He gestured to the open bathroom door, “Some water. Give me a second?”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah! Yeah! Sorry!” Marshall threw on a smile that was all teeth, and backed away, freeing Steven from his grip. Step one was done. Now to think of an excuse to leave. He turned back to the dining room, vaguely remembering leaving his jacket on a chair.

“Hey, Marshall?” Steven called after him. “Would you like some water, too?”

He stopped in his tracks. Water sounded nice, actually. But, to drink it, he would have to stay.

He turned back around, looking at the other man. He had the same small smile he gave him earlier, and a hand on his hip.

Fuck it, he was staying.

“Sure. I would.”