We’re All Mad Here

Come over please.

The text from Josh lights up my phone like a match. It comes out of nowhere—especially after he told me he'd be at some Alice in Wonderland–themed tea party all day with his friends. Apparently, he didn’t get a plus one. Shocking.

Yeah, it stung a little knowing he’d be out drinking and playing croquet with a bunch of well-dressed queers while I wasn’t invited. But honestly? It was also kind of a relief.

I don’t hate his friends.

I don’t know his friends.

Mostly because they’ve never really tried to know me.

When Josh brings me around, it’s like I’m a stranger who accidentally wandered into their group photo. They keep me at arm’s length. Maybe that explains the lack of plus one.

So instead, I leaned into the silence of my apartment and spent the day with my laptop.

I’ve been working on this script—could be a pilot, could be a film. It’s about a young gay guy and his group of messy, magnetic friends trying to find love (and dick) in LA. It’s horny and heartfelt, kind of chaotic, maybe a little too real.

Sure, it’s been done. But not by me. Not like this.

Just as I’m crafting the perfect polite text to let Josh down easy—Hey, I’m deep in writing mode, rain check?—my phone lights up with a call from the devil himself.

Ugh. I answer. Reluctantly.

“Hello, Joshua,” I say, channeling my best mother-knows-best tone.

“Seeeeeaaaaannnnnnnnnnn,” he drawls, and yep—he’s drunk. That deep, velvet voice of his now comes with a side of slur.

“What’s up?” I drop the maternal tone and switch to mildly judgmental therapist.

“I need you to come over.”

“Why?”

“I need your help.”

“Josh, you’re drunk. The only thing you could possibly need help with is remembering your own name.”

“Oh fuck! What’s my name again?” He laughs, proud of himself for that one.

“Shut up. Drink some water and go to bed,” I say, but I’m already smiling.

“Noooooo! I can’t remember how!”

Normally, a call like this would be a turn-off. Drunk boys usually give me the ick—the sloppiness, the clinginess, the performative chaos. But Josh? Josh is rarely like this. The man knows how to hold his liquor.

So when he doesn’t? It’s kind of… sweet.

He needs me. He’s touchy. He’s warm. He says nice things he’d never admit sober.

It’s a temporary reprieve from the cold, detached version of him I usually get. And I hate that it works on me. But it does.

“Take a shower. You remember how to do that, right?” I ask, already losing the battle and we both know it.

“Yesssssss, I remember,” Josh groans, dragging out the syllables like a kid trying to delay bedtime. “But you know how to make it that temperature I really like.”

I sigh, closing my laptop with an eye roll so dramatic it could qualify as cardio.

“You’re right. I am good at that.”

“You’re such a piece of shit,” I mutter.

“Yeah, but you’re on your way, right?” he says, all smug and smiling through the phone.

“…Give me fifteen minutes.”

God, I’m weak.

***

The hallway to Josh’s apartment always hits me with this electric sense of anticipation. Every nerve ending is on high alert, like my body knows something is waiting for me. It's like being pulled by a magnet—each step closer to his door feels like an inhale before the high. I know what’s on the other side: a hit of serotonin, lust, and maybe—if I’m lucky—something that feels like love. 

I’m not an idiot. I know he doesn’t love me. And I know I shouldn’t want to love him either… but here I am, slipping anyway. I’ve already broken all my rules. No sleepovers. No texting back after the first date. No getting involved with an older, emotionally unavailable man-child with deep, beautiful hazel eyes and a jawline sharp enough to wound me. “In trouble” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I’m so stupid. What am I doing?

As I raise my fist to knock on the door, I couldn’t help but wonder… am I the master of my own destruction? Am I enjoying the denial I’m living in? Constantly having to convince myself I’m not chasing a man that only sees me as a convenience? I could turn around. I could protect my pride, salvage what little self-respect I still have, and choose myself for once.

But instead, my knuckles meet the wood—three quick, certain knocks. Like muscle memory. Like my body had already made the choice before my brain caught up. I can’t even pretend I’m shocked.

The door falls open in front of me and my feelings of doubt, shame and anxiety melt away when I see that smile. 

The door swings open with a lazy creak, and there he is—Josh, shirtless and swaying slightly, wearing a smug half-smile and nothing but a pair of loose joggers hanging low on his hips. His hair’s a mess, eyes glassy but still somehow sharp beneath the haze. He’s got that look—somewhere between a lost puppy and a Greek god who’s had one too many tequila sodas.

“Baby! You made it!” he says, voice low and velvet, slurring just slightly. 

“You smell like regret,” I reply, stepping inside.

“Regret... and tequila,” he grins, stumbling a bit as he shuts the door behind me.

I roll my eyes and catch him by the arm before he trips over his own feet. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you in the shower.”

Josh doesn’t protest. He leans into me, head briefly resting on my shoulder like a weighted blanket. I guide him to the bathroom, flick on the light, and twist the knobs until the water’s at that perfect just-before-scalding temperature he always asks for.

He peels off his joggers with a lazy motion and steps in, letting the water hit his chest like it’s washing off the night. I sit on the toilet lid, elbows on knees, watching him as steam fills the small space.

“You’re staring,” he says through the spray.

“I’m supervising.”

“Mm, you always take such good care of me,” he says, head tilting back under the water. There’s a softness in his voice—one that could be real or just liquor-soaked. I don’t answer. I just hand him the body wash.

Because part of me wants to believe this means something.

And the other part already knows it doesn’t.

“You’re not going to help?”

His voice is lazy, low—like honey slipping down warm toast. He leans against the shower wall, naked, water cascading over his chest like something out of a music video. Drunk. Adorable. Dangerous.

Obviously I want to.

“I think you’re doing fine on your own.” I cross my arms like a shield, pretending my eyes aren’t glued to every dripping inch of him.

“But I don’t remember how to wash my hair,” he whines, pouting like a kid who lost his balloon. “And it’s that special shampoo. The one you like.”

He knows what he’s doing. That’s the worst part. He’s using my excellent taste in hair products against me.

“Josh—”

“Come on,” he interrupts, stepping forward so his body is half in, half out of the steam, close enough I can feel the heat from the water and him. “You’re already here. You’re already wet. Metaphorically, I mean. Might as well commit.” He smirks.

“Josh,” I warn again, but the fight is already leaving my voice. I don’t know why I’m pretending. I knew this would happen. I knew that I would be in this position. I know I’m going to give in.

“Fifteen minutes,” he says, leaning in like it’s a promise. “Just fifteen. No strings, no drama. Just you, me, and hot water.”

“Liar”

Josh doesn’t flinch. Instead, he starts stroking his half-hard cock, his eyes locked on mine like a challenge.

He grins—slow, devilish. “Guilty.”

I don’t remember peeling off my shirt. I don’t remember stepping out of my shorts or the sound of my shoes hitting the tile. All I remember is the rush. The gravity between us pulling harder than common sense.

Josh’s lips found mine before the water did—wet, eager, messy in a way that made my knees buckle. He tasted like tequila and heat and something I knew I’d miss tomorrow.

His hands were everywhere—my chest, my back, my hips—guiding me under the stream like I belonged there. Like I belonged to him.

The water hit us hot and heavy, but not hotter than him. Not hotter than this.

***

We’re quiet at first. The kind of silence that feels warm instead of awkward. My skin still tingles from the water, from him, from the way we didn’t even make it to his bed. Just the steam and the tile and his mouth.

Josh throws on a pair of old sweatpants and tosses me a hoodie that smells like him—cologne and dryer sheets and something inexplicably safe.

“Pizza?” he asks, already heading to the kitchen like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“Obviously.” I follow, still a little floaty, watching him dig through his freezer like it’s the most important mission of his life.

He turns, holding up a DiGiorno like he’s presenting treasure. “Gourmet.”

We laugh. It’s easy. Stupid and perfect.

We eat it off paper towels on the couch, legs tangled. Grease on our fingers, sauce at the corner of his mouth that I wipe away without thinking.

Then he puts on Batman: The Animated Series. “This was my comfort show as a kid,” he says.

“Explains a lot,” I tease.

“Shut up and cuddle me,” he smirks, already pulling me into his side.

I rest my head on his chest, and he wraps an arm around me like it’s muscle memory. Like this isn’t the first time.

And I break another rule, I let myself pretend. That this is normal. That I’m wanted. That this version of him—the soft, giggly, pizza-eating Batman nerd—is the real one. And that he’s mine.

“I’m really happy you’re here,” Josh says, squeezing my shoulder, pulling me closer. “I really care about you.”

Those words, simple and strung together just as I’d always wanted. And I’m happy. But I’m also scared.

“I really care about you too.” 

He nods like that was obvious, like it’s never been a question for him. Then, in the most casual, Josh-way possible, he adds, “You should be my boyfriend.”

I laugh a little, unsure if I heard him right. “What?”

He smiles, still looking at the TV, like he didn’t just say something that’s about to reroute my entire nervous system. “I said, you should be my boyfriend.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah.” He finally turns to look at me. “I like having you around. I feel good when you’re here. And I don’t want you seeing anyone else.”

His tone isn’t loaded or dramatic. It’s just… honest. Comfortable. Like he decided this in his head already and is just now looping me in.

I blink. “Are you serious?”

Josh leans over and kisses my temple. “Dead serious. Unless you don’t want to.”

I pause, but only for a second. “No, I do.”

“Cool,” he says, like we just agreed on what movie to watch next. Then he reaches for the remote, throws an arm around me, and presses play on another episode.

And just like that, I’m someone’s boyfriend again. His boyfriend. And somehow, it feels easy.

***

The sunlight spilling through Josh’s blinds feels almost theatrical, too bright and too warm for the weird hollowness sitting in my chest. I blink awake slowly, tucked into his side, his arm still lazily draped across my waist like muscle memory.

For a second, there’s peace.

Then he stirs.

“Shit,” Josh mutters, rubbing his face. “What time is it?”

I glance at my phone. “Almost nine.”

“Damn. I have a call in like twenty.” He sits up, already pulling away, already somewhere else entirely.

I stay there, watching him throw on yesterday’s jeans. He’s shirtless, hair messy, the usual post-night-out dishevelment that would normally make me feel smug or lucky. But today, it just makes me feel like a ghost in the wrong house.

He walks over and kisses the top of my head. “You mind heading out soon? I need to shower and take this call.”

“Yeah, of course.” I try to sound casual, like I’m not dying inside. Like the weight of reality isn’t as soul crushing as it is.

He’s already at the sink, brushing his teeth with one hand, scrolling his phone with the other. 

“I had a good time last night,” I call after him, keeping my tone light.

Josh pauses for just a beat—barely noticeable—then shrugs with a crooked smile. “Yeah? I think I did too.” He laughs a little, almost sheepish. “Honestly… I was pretty fucked up. I don’t remember much after getting in the shower.”

I get dressed quietly. I don’t ask questions I already know the answers to. I meet him over by the sink and shoot him a gentle smile before I head out.

“Guess it must’ve been a good time, though,” he adds with a wink, like that makes it better. Like that makes it fine.

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing it all down. “It was.”