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Hanschen Rilow hated parties. He hated the cheap beer, loud drunks, and bad house music. There he was though, leaning against the wall of Otto Lammermeir and Melchior Gabor’s living room, a red plastic cup in hand and the thump thump thump of the German techno beat keeping time with his pulse. Hanschen takes a sip of his Coors, already warm, in an attempt to wash the taste of off-brand Doritos and his own poor choices out of his mouth, remembering that if there’s one thing Hanschen Rilow doesn't hate, it’s Ernst Robel. And if there’s one thing Ernst Robel doesn't hate, it’s parties. And there he is, dancing on Bobby fucking Mahler of all people, in the center of the living room. Happy.

Hanschen didn't go to parties exclusively to spy on the pretty art therapy major with the kindest soul the world had ever seen- that would be too stalker-ish. Hanschen attended parties to see his friends, or at least that's what he told himself- and spy on Ernst. He spots Martha, who has her phone plugged in to the ridiculously expensive speaker system that Georg probably dragged over a few hours ago. Nearby in a corner, Moritz is huddled up with some silly boy from his environmental poetry class with an All Time Low hoodie, having some sort of earth shattering conversation that will seem utterly disappointing when they're no longer stoned out of their minds. He spots Melchior and Anna near the kitchen- Melchior blissfully unaware how bored Anna looks with their conversation. She keeps glancing over to Georg with pleading eyes to save her, but he's too busy ogling Thea and some tall blonde girl from the varsity volleyball team as they make out, swaying to the rhythm.

With his eyes trained on Ernst, Hanschen had a redhead leaning on his shoulder, asking questions whose answers she doesn't care about. He doesn't care enough to push her away, only acknowledging her when they are in Ernst's line of sight, half to make it seem like he was a social being, and half hoping to make him jealous. A shriek startles the both of them.

"Hansi!" Wendla Bergman throws her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The redhead slinks off when Hanschen's attention shifts to the two girls now in front of him. He smiles

"Hey Hanschen, how have you been?" Ilse asks, pulling her girlfriend off of Hanschen's bewildered but not unhappy form. He smiles for the first time that night.

"I'm alright, I might head out soon though."

"Did you talk to him?"

"He's preoccupied." Hanschen tips his head toward Ernst, now chatting on the couch in Bobby's arms. His shoulders tense, and he straightens his back when he sees Bobby fucking Mahler smirking at him, moving in closer to the pretty brunet in the acid wash jeans at his side- smug in the knowledge of the effect he was having on Hanschen.

"I've been talking you up in Art History, if that makes you feel any better." Ilse's attempt at comfort is briefly acknowledged with a nod, as Hanschen cranes his neck to get a better view of the pair on the navy blue couch across the room.

"Doesn't he know that Bobby has a reputation for being the worst person ever? Who would even entertain sleeping with him after the shit he's done?" Hanschen asks bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You did, didn't you Hansi?" Wendla pokes at his bicep, giggling. Ilse shoots her a sharp look. Hanschen clenches his jaw, but he can't deny that she is right. He fell for that gorgeous asshole's charisma, not to mention that body. They had been sleeping together for weeks when Hanschen asked Bobby to meet his parents, and Bobby responded by having a three way with Ina and Dieter in their shared dorm room.

But Ernst should know that he deserves better. Hanschen couldn't bring himself to say it but that didn't mean that it wasn't true. Ernst deserved to be cherished, taken out to fancy dinners, to musicals, to be brought home to meet your mother and father, to be held so fucking tight-- not to just be used and discarded like Bobby undoubtedly planned to do.

"Was that rude? I didn't mean to hurt your feelings Hanschen," Wendla frowns, grasping his hands.

"Sorry, she's already had a lot to drink. You should go talk to him, Hans. Don't be shy," Ilse teases, patting him tenderly on the shoulder.

Martha puts on a new song, one with a dance beat that might have made Hanschen feel like everything wasn't meaningless, and Wendla gasps loudly, "It's our song, Ils!" dragging her girlfriend to the middle of the living room to dance. 

He ponders Ilse's words, Don't be shy. Shy. Hanschen Rilow is not shy, he is deliberate. He is lying in wait for the perfect opportunity that wasn't upon him just quite yet, as he has admitted to on occasion, only after a few drinks. These kinds of admissions were usually followed by Georg insisting that no sane person would ever be into him if he kept saying shit like that out loud, and then Otto telling him that he sounds like Melchior.

As the party goes on, Hanschen loses sight of the couple, his thoughts making him sick to his stomach with images of Ernst and Bobby, tangled together, murmuring I-love-you’s and other sweet nothings, probably on a bed of roses. Perplexed, he heads to the kitchen for a drink of water, trying to put the thought of what Bobby is undeniably doing with Ernst out of his head.

He turns to the counter to grab a bottle of water, looking away from the mass of writhing bodies, when a pair of arms snakes around his waist, pinning him against the counter. Heart suddenly racing, he gulps as he waits for any indication of who could be pressing their body into his with an urgency he hadn't felt in months. He hoped, he fucking prayed, that it wasn't Bobby.

"I hear you've been looking for me," a soft voice purrs in his ear. He smells like peach schnapps and spray paint and his breath is hot on Hanschen's neck.

"And how did you draw that conclusion?" Hanschen chokes out, keeping his voice as cool and calm as he can.

"A little songbird told me; Wendla isn't subtle" Ernst teases, his eyelashes brushing the tip of Hanschen's ear, goosebumps blossoming down the back of his neck, "but neither am I."

Hanschen turns his head to look at the artist and his tantalizingly long eyelashes. He only gets a glimpse of them before Ernst pushes his mouth onto Hanschen's in a passionately wet kiss that Hanschen can only assume would be amazingly uncomfortable to witness if you weren't participating. But he was, so he didn't care.

He only lets himself enjoy the feeling of Ernst's mouth for a moment before pulling away.

"You're drunk," Hanschen murmurs into the other man's cheek, almost disappointed.

"So what? It still felt good." Ernst shoots back, running his hands up and down Hanschen's chest. Hanschen rolls his eyes, pushing him away lightly.

"So I'm not that kind of guy. That's not okay." Hanschen states firmly, creating distance between the two of them. Ernst's eyes fall, looking more wounded than anything that Hanschen expected.

"I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone then," Ernst mutters, avoiding eye contact with Hanschen as he pushes past him, rushing out of the kitchen.

Hanschen stands there, kicking himself over his strong moral character, chugging the rest of his water in an attempt to quench a different kind of thirst.

The party drags on, the people dancing to the beat of the same drum machine as they get more and more hammered. Anna and Georg join Hanschen in the kitchen and begin playing the same game they've played at parties since high-school-- counting the number of times that Melchior hits on someone who walks away either disgusted, uncomfortable, or laughing. The current total is 14, with the high-score at 22 during a particularly crowded New Years Eve party.

"Greta! Just say no!" Georg practically shouts, but it doesn't matter, nothing can be heard over Taylor Swift's Shake it Off. Greta is smiling wide, her hand on Melchior's shoulder, and Hanschen realizes he hasn't seen Ernst since their encounter in the kitchen. His friends serve as a welcome distraction, and when Hanschen's gone for that long, he's usually in the bathroom doing something unsavory to whatever pretty face has caught his eye. He tries to get himself invested back in the game, but his heart isn't in it-- and neither is Melchior's as he grasps Greta's hand and leads her away from the crowd.

With the game over, Anna and Georg head back into the living room to dance with Wendla and Otto, leaving Hanschen to his thoughts. His fucking thoughts. They had revolved around Ernst for months, no matter how many other people passed him by, he always went back to the artist with his stupid fucking acid wash jeans Hanschen desperately wished he could be in. Hanging out with Ernst with their friends was torture- they had known each other for years, but this sudden infatuation was throwing him off. Hanschen wanted to know Ernst. To be in his life. To spend time and trade secrets between classes and meetings. To not say how much they cared for each other because they didn't need to.

He was turning into a sap.

Hanschen didn't smoke, but he thought of taking it up if it helped him to get all this nonsense out of his head. Nevertheless, he felt himself long to be standing outside in the freezing cold night, and if he needed an excuse to do that, needing a smoke break was as good as any. Pushing through the crowd, the bodies jumping and bustling, he makes his way to the front door, fumbling with the doorknob until he turns it just right, pushing out into the cool night.

The snow on the ground was a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the living room, you could almost taste the sweat on the skin of your neighbor as they writhed to songs by The Chainsmokers and David Guetta from last year, as if any of them cared. Hanschen stood on the concrete stoop, three steps above ground level where everything seemed clearer. Two men stood in the driveway in front of him, not looking away when he slammed the door, creating as many degrees of separation between himself and the chaos as he could. He watched the smoke from their cigarettes, held lightly between their fingers flutter and dissipate into the cold night air.

Sinking to the ground to sit on the steps of the stoop, Hanschen presses his face into his hands, taking deep and calming breaths of the frosty (and slightly smoky) air into his lungs. In and out. In and out. His lips. In and out. Ernst's lips were so soft. In. Out. Fuck. Despite the chill, Hanschen melts at the mere memory of the artist's lips on his own. His hands on his chest. His hands over his heart.

But Hanschen learned the hard way that drunks don't mean what they do because, like Ernst said, "it still felt good" and God it felt Good. They had been friends since middle school that had fallen out of touch but now Hanschen wished he could touch Ernst again. Even back when they were eleven, twelve, thirteen, swimming in the creek, playing pirates in the woods, watching a movie, there was something in Ernst that caught Hans' eye. He smiled too wide, he laughed too loud, he loved too much. Hanschen wasn't enough back then, and he wasn't enough now.

He shakes the memories away, the pulling at his heart was becoming too much to bear. As the bass thumps on behind him, he realizes how much he doesn't belong here. Across the street next to the convenience store slash gas station is his apartment. Three floors up and two from the left is his bedroom window, beckoning to him. Parties made him tired. So tired.

It's exhausting to pretend to not be lonely.

Shooting a quick text to Ilse (who would probably show up on his doormat with an utterly sloshed Wendla to spend the night) he walks away from the house party, leaving Ernst and the masses behind him.

His one-bedroom apartment had never felt so empty.

            Bzz bzz bzz

Roused from his uneasy slumber, Hanschen gropes for his phone, the blue light stinging his eyes as he reads "let us in plz" Ilse- 2:24AM. "Let me put on pants. I'll be right down." Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he turns on his bedside lamp, trying to wake himself up enough to answer the door.

            Bzz bzz “brought a surprise. u owe me ;D”

Fuck.

Throwing on the nearest pair of pants (red flannel pajama bottoms) Hanschen does a quick sweep of the apartment, making sure there was nothing too embarrassing lying around for the unexpected guest to stumble upon. Ilse and Wendla had crashed at his place plenty of times after one of Melchior and Otto's parties, since his apartment was so close, and Hanschen was content to spend a night on the couch- but they had never brought back anyone else. By the sound of Ilse's text (and her use of emoji), Hanschen concluded that he should be terrified. He grabs his keys and rushes out the door, flying down the three flights of stairs to the front of the building.

"I hope you don't mind that we brought a friend," Ilse says, beaming with pride and a hint of mischief, "Some asshole was getting handsy on Ernst so we decided to rescue him."

Ernst. Standing sheepishly, supporting Wendla, he offers a short wave.

"No problem. I just hope you won't mind the couch." Hanschen makes a mental note to murder Ilse.

"I'm not picky," Ernst says with a smile as Wendla starts to slide out of his grip. Hanschen suppresses a laugh.

"Come on in, I cleaned up for you," stepping out of the doorway, allowing the trio to pass him and make their way up the stairs.

"You're too good to us Hansi," Wendla slurs, giggling as she steps on Ernst's feet, "Sorry Ernest."

"Don't worry about it, Wendy," Ernst responds cheekily, letting out a chuckle. Doing his best to ignore their inside joke, Hanschen notices that Ernst sounds a lot more sober than he did during their encounter a few hours ago.

"How was it after I left?" Hanschen asks no one in particular, trying to fill the silence as the group trudged up the stairs. In this moment he curses his landlord for never installing an elevator.

"It was fun- until Melchior took over the aux cord to play some weird SoundCloud rappers, and, well Bobby started getting a little too comfortable with our poor sweet Ernst." Ilse explains, patting Ernst on the back as he chuckles.

"I could have taken him," the brunet interjects defensively.

"No, honey, you couldn't have," Wendla sighs, running her hand lazily through Ernst's hair. Hanschen had never envied a girl more than he did in this moment.

"Hanschen, you've gotten into a few scuffles with Mr. Mahler, haven't you?" Ilse asks pointedly, a slight smile decorating her smug face. Hanschen isn't sure if she’s trying to show off his machismo or embarrass him, but her efforts aren't appreciated either way.

"It was once- one time. And it wasn't anything he didn't deserve," Hanschen mumbles, rubbing his knuckles at the memory of the contact they made with Bobby  Mahler's sharp jawline. And his nose. And his throat. It was not Hanschen's proudest moment. Bobby had been spreading some nasty rumors about his younger sister, Thea, so Hanschen took it upon himself to teach the boy some manners.

"I always forget how small your apartment is, Hans," Ilse remarks, letting her jacket fall to the ground next to the door, kicking off her sneakers. Wendla swats at Ilse, further tangling herself in her own winter coat.

"Do you have roommates?" Ernst asks, picking up Ilse's jacket and placing it alongside his own on the back of a chair.

"Nope, but rent's pretty cheap, and I like the quiet." Ilse snorts from across the room, rifling through the refrigerator.

Wendla flops onto a deep blue armchair that Hanschen managed to talk his mother into giving him, "Hansi, could I borrow a pair of shorts and a t-shirt? You know the ones I like," she smiles dreamily, making room for Ilse and her cherry Coke on the chair.

"Me too, Hanschen?" Ilse adds, plopping down next to her girlfriend and cracking open the cold can. Ernst stands by the door, unsure what to do next.

"I suppose," Hanschen rolls his eyes and feigns annoyance, but hesitates in the doorway to his bedroom, "Do you want something to wear, Ernst?"

He shifts uncomfortably, shoving his hands into the pockets of his too-tight acid-wash jeans. Hanschen can't help but smile.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks," Ernst replies, seemingly embarrassed to not have brought a pair of pajamas to a house party.

Hanschen grabs a pillow and blanket from his closet for Ernst and the couch before turning to face the dresser. He knows that Wendla likes his Model UN t-shirt and his old running shorts, and that Ilse prefers a long button-up flannel, but he had no idea what Ernst would be comfortable in. Would his Rilow Family Reunion t-shirt be too weird? Would Hanschen's sweatpants be too short on him? Should he just ask him? Fuck.

Shaking the meaningless thoughts from his head, Hanschen grabs the pile of clothes and heads back into the living room/kitchen/foyer, and distributes the garments accordingly, tossing the pillow and blanket on the couch. Wendla and Ilse rush off to the bedroom to change while he hands Ernst his t-shirt and an old pair of grey sweats.

"I hope these fit, you're taller than I am, but they should be okay."

"They're perfect, thanks. Bathroom?" Hanschen points to the bathroom door, and Ernst makes his way over. Hanschen sinks onto the sofa and inadvertently watches Ernst as he saunters over, still a little wobbly from the alcohol. It was endearing watching such a tall man be so clumsy and unsure of his movements.

"Hanschen, I'm sorry."

Ernst doesn't turn around when he says it. Frozen, he waits for Hanschen's response.

"Don't worry about it. We were drunk."

“I was drunk, but still. I shouldn't have been so careless. I should have thought before I-”

"And what would you have done differently had you thought about it beforehand?" Hanschen cuts him off, sounding more brash than he intended to.

Finally turning around, Ernst is bright red, clutching the clothes loosely to his chest.

"I don't know, maybe I wouldn't have done anything," he pauses, shutting his eyes tightly, "But when Wendla told me that you might be into me, I don't know. I guess I just acted-"

"On instinct?"

"Yeah."

"Don't apologize, Ernst. We can talk about it later, in the morning." Ernst's face softens into a look of relief, contentment. Hanschen took some pride in having put it there.

"Are you sure you're, like, comfortable with me staying here tonight?" Ernst asks, leaning against the bathroom door.

"Are you sure you're comfortable staying here tonight?" Hanschen counters, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow, fighting off a friendly smirk.

"Yeah," Ernst nods, smiling gently.

"Me too."

Ernst closes the bathroom door behind him. As soon as he does, Ilse comes bounding out of his bedroom, grinning like a maniac.

"He likes you too! He likes you too!" she whispers aggressively, shaking Hans' shoulders, nearly jumping for joy.

"Shut up, he didn't say that," Hanschen smiles despite himself, standing up to go and get a spot on the floor ready for himself.

"He basically did! Hansi this is exciting!" she insists, still jumping up and down right as he maneuvered himself around her to the bedroom.

"Shush, he might hear you." Hanschen puts a finger to his lips and pulls a blanket and a pillow from the bed, trying not to disturb Wendla who is already asleep, and tosses them to the floor.

"Um, no. You're not sleeping on the ground in here. There's hardly any room! And besides," Ilse reasons, picking up the pillow and blanket and thrusting them at Hanschen, "Wendla's feeling frisky, and you definitely don't want to be near that."

"If you have sex in my bed, I will bury the both of you." She was right, though. Hanschen surveys the room- with the dresser and double bed, there was hardly any room for one person, let alone three.

Ilse winks at him and pushes him out the door, "Goodnight, Hansi. I just want what's best for you," she croons, closing the door.

Facing the empty living room, Hanschen picks a spot next to the window, near the foot of the couch- far enough away so that he wasn't going to be too close to Ernst while he slept. Hanschen felt his anxieties evaporate as his head hits the pillow, there was something comforting about sleeping on the floor, nostalgic almost. It reminded him of sleepovers at friends homes, staying up and giggling until midnight, buzzed from so much sugar and the thrill of staying up past their bedtime. Hanschen, Ernst, and their friend Max had a sleepover once. It was in Max's basement, with Hanschen insisting they had to go to bed at a sensible hour while the other two boys played video games and waved him away, lazer-like focus on winning some boss battle. Hanschen hoped this slumber party would not go similarly.

The bathroom door creeks open and Hanschen shuts his eyes, pretending he's asleep. He can hear Ernst getting under the blanket, settling into the quiet, exhaling softly.

"Hanshen?"

"Yes?"

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Ernst."

Hanschen awakes to the sound of the shower turning on at 9:30 the next morning. His back ached and his head throbbed, and the couch was empty. He stretches, feeling out the damage- the floor was not kind to him. Carefully, he rises to his feet to see who was still there.

Ernst had folded the blanket Hanschen had given him the night before and placed it neatly on the end of the couch with the pillow on top. Making his way towards the kitchen, Hanschen notices a slip of paper on the small table next to a dying fern and a box of Wheat Thins.

Went for donuts, be back soon, xoxo W&I

The note was written in Wendla's curly handwriting, a work of art in itself, and Hanschen seriously doubted that Ilse would think to leave hugs and kisses for him. But she didn't leave them for just him, it was only Ernst that could be in his shower now. Ernst was still here.

What did he do now? Hanschen hadn’t had a hookup ever stay the night before, but Ernst wasn’t a hookup, but he was still a relatively strange man that spent the night on his couch. Fuck. Hanschen makes his way to his room to straighten it up a bit, desperate for a distraction from the thought of Ernst in his shower. Using his soap and towels. And without asking. Whatever, he’s cute he can do whatever he wants forever. Hanschen’s thoughts were going a mile a minute before he took a moment of clarity to text Ilse, “When will you be back? He’s in the shower. What do I do?”

He tosses some discarded clothes into the hamper, makes the bed, puts on some deodorant, paced- Bzz bzz

boil some water, e likes tea, and fuckin relax”

He could boil some water.

            Bzz bzz

Wen says to put on some smooth jazz and a bathrobe. b back by 10 ;)”

10am. That gave Hanschen 30 minutes to do, whatever.

A squeak from the bathroom means Ernst just turned the water off.

Hanschen goes into the kitchen, picking up a small kettle that Thea had given him as a housewarming gift. It was painted a dark blue with a small dent on the left side from where she dropped it entering his building for the first time. It would do.

Hanschen sat at the small kitchen table- an old table from Goodwill with two mismatched chairs, staring at his phone and waiting for the water to boil. The bathroom door opens.

"Good morning, I hope you don't mind that I took a shower. Ilse said it would be okay," Ernst greets, clothed, steam from his shower pouring out behind him like he was some kind of ethereal being blessing the room with his presence.

"No problem, uh, good morning to you too. Sleep okay?" Hanschen asks, unsure of what to do next. He stands up to go and fiddle around at the stove, keeping himself busy before he did something stupid.

"Yeah, great. You still talk in your sleep," Ernst comments, chuckling, scratching the back of his head and lifting his arms so that the Rilow family reunion t-shirt he was wearing rode up just enough for Hanschen to get a glimpse of skin beneath.

"Still?"

"Yeah, when we had sleepovers as kids you talked in your sleep too. It was-"

"Annoying?"

"Cute."

"Oh," Hanschen casts his eyes to the floor, embarrassed, "I honestly can't believe you remember that. We were so little."

"What a difference ten years makes." Hanschen is painfully aware of Ernst inching closer and closer to him. His eyes are kind and his smile is inviting so why is it so hard to just go for it?

"Hanschen?"

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to talk about it?" He looked so sincere it was breaking Hanschen's heart.

"About what?"

"What happened at Melchior and Otto's? If I crossed a line, Hanschen, I'm sorry, but I'm glad that it happened. I've wanted it to happen for a while now." His damp, dark hair hung in his deep eyes, shining and smiling, always smiling. Hanschen could reach out and push it out of his eyes. All he would have to do was lift his hand to Ernst's broad, lightly speckled forehead. The thought of the contact was thrilling. The kettle started to boil.

"So you don't regret it?" Hanschen asks carefully.

"No. Do you?"

Hanschen paused, terrified of having to admit to being so vulnerable, to feeling human emotion.

"No." He didn't, he couldn't. Hanschen smiles, fucking smiles, as Ernst lets out a sigh of relief.

"So, do you mind if I kiss you again?" Ernst asks, suddenly close, grasping Hanschen's hand lightly in his own. Hanschen feels the spark. He's safe.

Smirking, squeezing Ernst's hand, he murmurs, "As long as you don't mind that I haven't brushed my teeth yet."