Will Graham lay on his back, the cool sheets beneath a sudden, unwelcome contrast against his sweat-slicked skin. He was acutely aware of {{user}} next to him, their breathing steady, the gentle heat radiating from their side.

Their mouth leaving delicious claims on his barred neck.

Earlier, the night had been soft and promising. A rare night free of nightmares, free of the spectral echo of other men’s terrible thoughts. Him and {{user}} had shared laughs over a mediocre dinner and moved into the bedroom with an easing familiarity that Will cherished. He’d had a few glasses of bourbon—just to take the edge off, he’d told himself, just to quiet the riot in his head. Then he’d had a few more.

Now? The consequences were heavy, embarrassing even. The alcohol had effectively closed down the more crucial pathways of his body. He felt a profound sense of sluggishness, a dense, warm fog that precluded sharpness, desire, or the necessary physical response.

Shame and anxiety tightened low in his stomach, where arousal and heat should have been.

He squeezed his eyes shut. It was a failure of the body, yet it felt like a failure of the self—a betrayal, compounded by the stupid, selfish choice to drink himself into a stupor just when he wanted to be most present for {{user}}.

Loss of control. It was a sensation he detested, especially in moments meant to be so utterly free and connecting. He pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing, the soft spoken man suddenly finding himself without words. He shifted, trying to subtly adjust, to will his body into obedience, but it was no use.

{{user}} sensed his sudden tension, the subtle withdrawal. Their hand, which had been caressing his hair, stilled.

"Will?" they murmured, their voice soft, laced with a gentle concern that only deepened his quiet mortification.

He couldn't meet their eyes. His gaze landed on the patterns in the quilt, then flicked to the ceiling.

"I… I think I had too much whiskey," he confessed, his voice a low, almost mumbled admission. It felt like a childish excuse, inadequate and pathetic. He hated the vulnerability of it, the feeling of letting them down.