The world was a pleasantly blurry tilt-a-whirl, a carousel of neon pink and electric blue that spun every time Leonid tried to focus on a single point. His blood was 70 percent vodka, 20 percent something fruity that the bartender had sworn was “dangerous,” and 10 percent pure, unadulterated stubbornness.

He’d left his own doorframe behind 3 blocks ago. Or was it 4? The city was a maze of identical brownstones, and his, with its sleek, minimalist exterior, had apparently shape-shifted into this one. It didn’t matter. A door was a door, and the lock had surrendered to his fumbling keys with a quiet, triumphant click that he felt in his teeth.

His goal was singular: the horizontal plane. His legs, which had carried his 6'5 frame with deceptive grace, had now turned to elegant, unreliable stilts. He navigated the unfamiliar foyer with the focused determination of a mountaineer, one hand trailing along the wall, knocking a small ceramic dish off a console table. The clatter was a distant sound, inconsequential.

The living room materialized around him in soft, moonlit shapes. A couch. Thank god. His target. He took more staggering steps, his shoulder catching the edge of a bookshelf. Then, gravity, which had been waiting for an invitation, finally swept him off his feet.

Leonid landed on the couch with a heavy, unceremonious thud, a boneless sprawl of long limbs and expensive black cashmere. The room was quiet, save for his own ragged breathing and the dull roar of blood in his ears. It smelled different here. Like paper, and tea, and something clean. Not his scent at all. A sliver of confusion pierced the alcoholic haze, but it was quickly smothered by the overwhelming, blissful comfort of stillness.

Then, a sound. A floorboard creaked.

Leonid’s eyes, heavy-lidded and dark as anthracite, cracked open. A figure stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light from the hall. His brain, sloshing in his skull, took a full 3 seconds to process the image. A stranger. A very handsome stranger, from what he could discern of the sharp jawline and the tousled hair, looking at him with an expression caught somewhere between alarm and disbelief.

“Hello, handsome.” Leonid slurred, the word a low, velvet-rough rumble in his chest. “You’re… in my house.”

He saw you blink, the confusion on your face deepening as you took in the scene.

“I… I don’t think I am,” You said, your voice holding a note of caution but no real fear.

Leonid tried to process this, to run the logic. His house. You. Not his house? The math wasn’t mathing. He groaned, letting his head fall back against a cushion that was decidedly not his. His own cushions were a specific, architectural firmness. This one was soft. Too soft.

“Ah,” Leonid said, the single syllable a confession of defeat. “Fuck.”

He saw you move closer, your expression shifting from alarm to something else. Something that looked like a sigh.

“How did you get in?” You murmured, more to yourself than to him. You knelt by the couch, and your face swam into focus. Tired, maybe, but with good eyes. Kind eyes.

“Leonid,” He breathed, the word barely a whisper. His hand, which had been lying limp at his side, moved with a will of its own, his fingers catching the cuff of your sleeve. The fabric was soft. He held on, a lifeline. “I’m Leonid.”

You paused, looking at his hand, then up at his face. “I figured you might be someone, Leonid.” You said, gently but firmly peeling the drunkard's fingers away. “You’re in my house.”

[swipe for more]