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Oluwande was smashed approximately three shitty beers and a kegstand ago. At this point, all he can make out of the music blasting from the stereo is vibes, the bass pumping loud enough to shake the floorboards of whoever's house it is he and Jim wound up at. He checks quickly to make sure Jim still has most of their clothes on—
"Does tequila make her clothes fall off?" The upperclassman beside him chuckles, elbowing Oluwande in the ribs.
"Their clothes," he says, not taking his eyes off Jim, currently grinding between a tall guy who stole his hair from Elvis and someone who honestly looks too old to be here.
"Oh, yeah, sure. My bad." The guy clears his throat. "Does it though?"
Oluwande rolls his eyes. "Depends on who's asking," and he turns to look at him. The man doesn't sound anything like his voice; Oluwande had definitely expected slightly taller and less butch.
"Well they're dancing with both my boyfriends. Which!" He holds his hands up placatingly, and Oluwande tries to pull his poker face back on. "That's totally fine, man. I'm no dancer."
"No offense, but neither are your boyfriends."
The bald guy laughs again. "Got me there." He sticks his hand out, then switches it for the hand not clutching a red plastic cup. "Pete."
"Oluwande." He goes in for a shake. "This your place?"
"Nah, belongs to one of Izzy's friends. Izzy, that's him on the right." His eyes grow wide. "Shit but your, uh, themfriend? Anyway, they've got moves. Might wanna get in there unless you're cool with them making out."
"Trust me," says Oluwande, "they can more than handle themself with other people."
"Then why do you keep watching?"
"Keeping them dressed is a whole different set of problems." Oluwande frowns; Jim and Izzy are getting a bit handsy with each other, now that Pete's pointed it out. "Hey, weird question. He student or faculty?"
Pete outright cackles, drawing several sets of eyes and a curious look from Sideburns. "He started going gray at sixteen and just rolled with it. Senior, not senior citizen." Pete cups one hand around his mouth. "Isn't that right, babe?"
"Fuck off!" Izzy shoots the bird in Pete's general direction. "Whatever you said is probably wrong!"
"He's defending your honor, mate!" Oluwande shouts, grinning.
"Then he can doubly fuck off!"
"Drama majors," Pete says, "am I right?"
"Undoubtedly." He thinks he should say more, that the philosophy department's prone to the same type, but the music suddenly cuts out. When it cuts back on…
"Goddammit, Jack," Izzy bellows above the din, "turn off goddamn 'Wagon Wheel!' We're not a bloody square dance!"
"Well we could be!" yells the guy with a seriously impressive mustache next to the stereo. He gesticulates with the bottle of rum clenched by the neck in his hand. "It's a classic for a fucking reason!"
"Oh for fuck's sake," and Izzy excuses himself, taking Jim's arms from around his neck and spinning them around to Sideburns. Jim shrugs, grabs his face, and pulls him down to kiss him.
"That's my cue," Oluwande says, beginning to push through the idling throng toward them.
"I thought you said they could handle themself!" Pete's jostling right behind him, though he smashes his shin into a coffee table. "Ow, dammit."
"Clothes!" Oluwande makes it to Jim just in time to tug the hem of their muscle tank back down. "Promised I wouldn't let you strip this time," he reminds Jim.
"Yeah, yeah." Jim gives him a peck on the cheek. "Gracias, amorcito."
"Would it be weird if I suddenly had a thing for Jim?" Sideburns asks Pete, who ducks under his arm. "Like, more than I already did after we trauma-bonded over that art history midterm."
"If you can still remember taking it, Lucius," says Jim, poking him in the chest, "then you're clearly not drunk enough."
"If I get too drunk, I might miss actually getting granted access to the Goncharov Google doc!"
Oluwande groans just as Izzy, still across the room by the stereo, screams, "Not fucking Goncharov again!"
"Lynda Carter just posted about it! I must recognize the queen!"
"Oh shit," Jim says, grabbing for their phone, "Wonder Woman knows Goncharov?"
"Yes, darling, it's a photo of her and the fucking Fonz at—I shit you not—the premier at Grauman's!"
Both of them start squealing about it. Oluwande reaches for Pete's cup and takes a long drink.
"I miss last week when I'd never heard about Goncharov," says Pete, but he pets at Lucius' elbow on his shoulder as he and Jim scroll on their phones.
"Does yours get weird about the hotel scene?"
"Mine fucking drew it, got like forty-thousand something hearts on his tumble thing."
Oluwande passes the cup back; Pete clearly needs it more. "It finally breached containment and hit Twitter a few days ago. Because we didn't have enough problems." Pete raises his eyebrows in commiseration as he drinks, and Oluwande suddenly realizes he drank after him. Granted, the way Jim's been rubbing up on people, the chances of catching something from this damn party are already fairly high. "I can't handle Musk, Miss Rona, college, and bloody Goncharov," he moans.
"You on Mastodon?" Pete asks. "I could invite you to my server."
"Nah, I'm committed to playing the violin as the iceberg sinks us all in Nazis. Plus I'm still waiting for approval on Cohost."
"Any requests?" Izzy asks from the stereo. The mustached man glares daggers at him as he pulls from his bottle.
"Play 'Katya's Theme!" says Jim, sending Lucius into a fit of giggles. "The one someone ran through MAIKA, though, necesito bailar."
Oluwande swears he can hear Izzy's eyes rolling, but Lucius backs Jim up. "It's on my playlist, love," he says, "just scroll down to the gay power ballads. Look for 'Tema', tee-ee-em as in masochist-ay."
The song's more rolling electronic pop than Oluwande expected, but it's enough to finally make Jim put their phone away. They grab Oluwande's hand, dragging him even closer to the stereo to dance with them. Oluwande has rhythm, sure, but it doesn't come easy when he's looking at Jim. Or rather, at the back of Jim's head, Jim pressed full and taut against his front, one slender hand behind the back of Oluwande's neck, the other out in front, snapping along with the beat and the sinuous slide of their hips.
"Por supuesto," Jim sings along, and it tugs at Oluwande's heart as if they're singing just for him. "Por supuesto, me dices, que estamos enamorados." They turn in his arms, Oluwande's hand sliding along their stomach; their waist; their spine. Their eyes are closed, glitter spilling down their lashes to lie on high cheekbones. "Por supuesto, me dices, ah mi corazón, ¿por qué falló?"
"Eres tan hermoso a la luz de la luna." Oluwande swipes a piece of glitter away from the corner of Jim's eyes with his thumb.
Jim looks at him with a smirk "¿Solamente a la luz de la luna?"
"No," he whispers. "Sólo siempre," and he kisses the taste of Lucius' lip gloss from their mouth, sweet cherry made bitter by the cheap beer on their tongue as it tangles with his.
They're just swaying together now, possibly off-beat, though Oluwande's hardly paying attention to the music. Only to Jim, warm against him, and the brim of their stupid hat that Oluwande keeps running into while kissing them.
Jim breaks away, and Oluwande misses kissing them already. There's never enough of Jim to have.
"You know," Jim says, a mischievous tilt to their lips, "this is just like in Goncharov when Katya tr—"
Oluwande groans and stares at the ceiling. "No," he interjects, "this is not like any scene in Goncharov! Don't Tumblr while you're being sexy!"
"That means never Tumblring, at all."
"I'm serious, Jim."
"Or what?" Jim dares, hooking their thumbs in Oluwande's belt loops, tugging them closer together. "What'chu gonna do about it?"
"I'll delete it!" He grimaces internally; leave it to Jim to get extra bratty when he's flustered over weird unreality internet games.
"What, my account?"
"No, Tumblr, all of it!"
Jim's eyebrows meet their neon blue hairline. "Can you do that?"
Oluwande thinks back to the summer camp for gifted kids he went to five years ago and shrugs. "I won't know until I try."
They tilt their head, assessing him with their eyes. "That's kind of hot."
"Only because you're crazy," Oluwande tells them, laughing. "Open parentheses - affectionate - close parentheses."
Jim snorts, tossing back their head, and Oluwande is certain they're drunk now, because he's never that funny. "Terminally online game knows game, naranjito."
"Oh my God." Oluwande startles a bit; he hadn't noticed Lucius at his elbow again. "You two, right now, it's giving that scene where Sofia is about to—"
"Ix-nay on the Oncharov-gay," Jim hisses.
"Only Andrey is Oncharov-gay."
"Some of us are trying to get laid tonight, pendejo."
Lucius mimes zipping his mouth closed, waits a beat, then immediately unzips it. "Anyway, do you two have plans for ye olde day of imperialist host country gratitude? Pete and his friend Roach from the hospitality program promise not to burn the bird too badly."
"Nah," Jim says, "we've gotta hit the road to my nana's in the morning."
"But hey, thanks," adds Oluwande. "We appreciate the offer."
Lucius holds his hand out for Jim's phone. "Let me exchange info at least. If there's edible leftovers, we're sure to have plenty. Jim said you're both in the dorms?" and he shudders, typing his contact info into Jim's unlocked cell. "Moved off-campus as soon as they'd let me. At least come hang out and shitpost with me before the Gonchawar is over, okay?" He hands it back, then shouts a goodbye over his shoulder as Izzy appears from nowhere and pulls him off toward the stairwell.
As soon as they're both out of sight, 'Wagon Wheel' starts playing on the stereo again. Jim snickers. "This is gonna turn into a shitshow in about two minutes."
"You want to head back?"
"Yeah," and Jim leans in to kiss him again, mouths closed, only long enough for them to tease their fingers between the buttons of Oluwande's shirt. "Llévame a casa, papi."
They're making out hot and heavy in the back of the Lyft the whole way back to campus. Oluwande tips the guy extra for putting up with them, promising himself to actually remember to leave a good rating in the morning after coffee. Jim swipes them into the dorm—they all but run past the RA stuck on desk duty to the elevator up to the co-ed floor. They try to start kissing him again in the elevator, but Oluwande shuts them down, not wanting to catch another write-up.
Jim breaks out of the elevator onto the ninth floor at breakneck speed, only to turn and sheepishly hold out their hand for the door key. Oluwande lets them in, barely getting the bolt thrown behind them before Jim is stripping their shirt and binder off. If Oluwande's being honest, he's been wet since before Jim dropped that first papi on him, so his own clothes are quick to join Jim's on the floor.
"Shower," he manages between biting kisses. "You still smell like other men," and he backs Jim toward the en-suite they share with the room next door. Oluwande marvels at the weird twist of fate that led to he and Jim being misassigned to each other as roommates in the first place, then allowed to keep rooming together anyway as they both slide on flip-flops and wait for the water to heat up.
But Jim wastes no time on waiting beyond that. Oluwande is barely under the fixed stream of water before Jim is on their knees, spreading Oluwande's folds to suck at the head of his cock. He gasps in a mouthful of warm water, throwing a hand out to clutch at the tiled walls for balance. They try to slide a finger into his hole, but Oluwande grabs Jim's hair and yanks hard.
"Wash," he says, panting, "your hands first, you absolute demon."
Jim grumbles, Oluwande's fist still firmly gripped in their hair, but pumps a dollop of body wash into their hands and does as they're told.
"Sorry, UTIs aren't sexy!" Jim keeps pouting until Oluwande tugs up so he can kiss it off their face. "You are, though," and he snaps his teeth at Jim until they giggle, back to making out beneath the shower head before he knows it. Jim's back hits a cold tiled wall and they briefly shriek before covering their own mouth.
"Didn't John and French leave campus yesterday?" Oluwande asks, referring to their en-suite mates. He tweaks Jim's left nipple on his way down to grab Jim's bar shampoo from the caddy.
"I don't want—fuck, Olu—don't want to make Fang have to warn us for noise again."
"Fang's lucky we don't have a handheld shower head," Oluwande says, sinking his lathered hands into Jim's hair.
"Huh?"
"Because I'd be in here using it on you every chance I got." Jim squints at him, confused. "To make you come," he elaborates, but Jim's scowl deepens.
"Okay, one: how? But two," and Jim reaches up and takes the showerhead out of the wall.
Oluwande stares at it, spitting water haphazardly into their little plastic shower caddy.
"How long—"
"Maintenance redid it like, first week of school," Jim tells him. "Something about ADA-compliance for John, what with his back shit. Why do you look like we just struck gold?"
"Because we just struck gold," says Oluwande, rinsing his hands off and snatching the showerhead from Jim, "and you're going to thank John for having spinal conditions on Monday."
"Should we be doing this drunk?"
Oluwande just grins. "Spread your legs for me, anyway."
Jim does so with a gratuitous wiggle, and Oluwande holds them open further, leaning in to swallow their first surprised little oh! as the water hits them. They've never been a quiet lover, and this time proves no different, their hums of pleasure as constant as the stream hitting their clit. They're an easy come, too, something Oluwande's always envied them for, being more a one-and-done man himself, but he wonders if the relentless pressure of the water will finally push Jim over their seemingly endless edge of stimulation tolerance.
"Olu, Olu, fuck—!" Jim's trying to push into the stream, so Oluwande moves it closer, and Jim gives a sharp cry as they crest before biting down on the heel of their hand.
He doesn't move the showerhead an inch.
"Oh," Jim says, realizing the game, laughing breathlessly, "oh, hijo de puta, you son of several shits." They squeeze their unbitten hand between them, trying to get to Oluwande's cock without disrupting the water. "Ése es un juego para dos, cabrón."
Oluwande chuckles, trying to shift away from their hand. "Just play it later then, naranjite. Just feel for me now." He watches Jim's thighs begin to shake again. "Solo siéntelo."
Jim's hand flutters limply back to the wall, and they surrender to the onslaught a second time.
By the third, Jim's panting into the side of his neck, near soundless when they come.
A fourth, and Oluwande thinks he may be all that stands between Jim and gravity.
He keeps going.
"No más," Jim mumbles after the fifth, pushing the showerhead away weakly. "You win, oh fuck me, you win."
Oluwande kisses the side of Jim's head, getting a mouthful of shampoo for his trouble. He manages to put the showerhead back in the wall, and they both get Jim's hair rinsed out before the water turns too cold. Jim's still blissed out, oddly quiet as Oluwande towels them both dry.
"You didn't come yet," Jim points out from the toilet while Oluwande's brushing his teeth at the in-room sink.
"Pay me back when we turn in," and Jim does, Oluwande's thighs over their shoulders, mouth buried between his legs, sucking and stroking like there's no place else they'd rather be, nothing sweeter than the honey already between their lips.
Eighteen hours and an exceedingly tedious long-distance drive later, Jim's nana opens the door to her little condo. She immediately gives Oluwande the once-over.
"¡Qué guapo!" she says to Jim as she adjusts her spectacles.
Jim groans. "Oluwande speaks Spanish, Nana."
"Smart of him. Well," and she turns back to wrap him in the same warm hug she gave to Jim, "you're quite the handsome man, Oluwande." Nana steps back, then points a knowing look at them both. "No wonder you are so very late."