I open the door and turn on the light. It's nice. Tidy, like the rest of the house. Cleaner than any single guy's bathroom I've ever seen. I open the drawer, taking an unopened toothbrush. I stare at myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth but then I get sick of looking at myself. I take my glasses off so all I see is a blurry mess.
Back in Cameron's room, he's sitting in bed. He's wearing sweatpants now.
He hands me a change of clothes and says, "These'll fit okay."
I take a look at them and turn off the lights before changing. It's sweatpants and a long-sleeve. Thank god.
"They fit," I say, setting my clothes aside on his desk.
"Thanks for the update," he says sarcastically. "Now get in bed."
"All right," I say, trying not to act weird about all of this.
I still feel like I should just go home. He seems like he wants to be alone.
I get under the covers and face away from him. Should I say something? I don't know. I don't think there's anything we can talk about besides those bruises on his neck. Anything else would be so forced.
After a moment of silence, he sits up and flicks on the lamp sitting on his nightstand.
"Ugh, I feel sick," he huffs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and putting his head between his knees, taking a few heavy breaths.
"You gonna throw up?" I sit up a little, peering over at him.
He straightens up and turns my way. "No," he says, sounding annoyed I'd even ask.
"Do you want me to get you anything?"
"No," he repeats.
"Are you sure you don't want to talk?" I offer once more.
"About what? Jackson? No, I don't want to talk about that."
"We can talk about whatever you want," I say. "It doesn't have to be him."
Cameron lets out a long sigh. "It's weird…" he mumbles in this flat, hollow tone.
"What is?"
"Relationships," he says vaguely.
"Yeah, I suppose. I wouldn't really know."
"That's funny," he says with a mocking smile. "You let all these guys fuck you and you've never had a boyfriend."
"I haven't found the right person yet."
He nods slowly. "Guess that's fair."
I keep staring at him. The bruises look painful. I wonder if he was afraid. I would have been.
"Stop that," Cameron demands. "I know they're ugly, that's why I was hiding them."
"They're not ugly," I say because they're not. "They just look like they hurt."
"Well they don't," he snaps. "They're old so stop worrying about it."
"Not that old," I reply.
"Don't care," he insists.
Wasn't Cameron dealing with his show that whole time? When the hell between now and last Monday was there a chance for this to happen? I mostly want to know how the fuck Jackson of all people managed to even run into Cameron while he was practically living out of the sculpture studio.
"When did you see Jackson?" I decide to ask.
He grunts and shrugs, giving no answer. For a minute, I don't say anything else. Neither does he. We just sit here across from one another and it's silent.
Then Cameron turns around. He moves closer towards me.
"We don't need to talk about him. I have much more interesting things to talk about," he says, sounding cheeky.
"All right," I say. "Well… we can do whatever you want."
He smiles slightly at that and moves even closer, leaning forward so our noses are nearly touching.
"Whatever I want, huh?"
I can smell the liquor on his breath.
It makes me anxious and I think he senses that because he backs away and then starts to laugh.
"Well, yeah," I say, trying not to get shaken up.
He gives me a funny look and then leans in again.
"So, that means I could do this," he says before closing the gap between our faces.
It comes as a shock because even this drunk I assumed he had better taste than to go for someone like me. He's persistent though, and I don't want to pull back even though my instincts tell me I should.
"Cameron," I mumble into his mouth.
He shushes me harshly and keeps planting sloppy kisses on my face. I don't know what to make of it. Does he mean this, or is he just wasted? It's not possible that he could actually want to pursue anything with me, is it?
I want to be able to enjoy this, but my mind is racing a mile a minute. Does Cameron like me? Do I even like him? I never even allowed myself to seriously consider it because he's so out of my league. But now that this is happening…what do I do?
I force myself to pull away because I think it's the right thing to do. "We shouldn't…" I say, hoping he won't feel like I'm rejecting him.
His reaction surprises me. Instead of getting mad he just nods and mumbles, "Yeah…"
"It's just… you're really drunk," I state.
"No shit."
"I don't want you to do anything you regret later."
"I wouldn't."
But he can't know that for sure. Not now. Not when he's this fucked up.
Cameron lets out a long sigh and leans his head into the crook of my neck. I can feel him breathing. What should I do? Should I hug him? Should I say something comforting? I hope he doesn't start crying again. I never know what to do in these situations. I want to make him feel better, but I don't think I'm good at it.
Before I can start to panic, he lifts his head. He's not crying. He just looks numb.
"Do you want to go to bed?' I suggest, and he nods his head loosely before rolling over and turning the light back off.
He hunkers down but leaves the covers off, grabbing one of the pillows and gripping it against his chest and stomach.
"You okay?" I ask, laying down next to him. "Feel sick?"
"I'm fine," Cameron insists.
I'll have to take his word for it. Jeez. I really hope he's not offended. I don't want to screw everything up. If this is a real thing, then I want to actually do it right this time.
***
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I feel is Cameron kneeing me in the side as he climbs over me and runs out of the room.
Is he gonna yak? I wouldn't be surprised if he was.
Tentatively, I climb out of bed and walk down the hall. The bathroom door is open a crack, but I don't want to force my way in. Instead, I knock and say his name.
"Cameron? Are you okay?"
He doesn't respond, but a few moments later I hear vomiting sounds.
Yikes.
"Cameron," I say his name once more. "I'm gonna come in, okay?"
He doesn't respond but the noises continue and after a minute I don't feel like I have much of a choice. I knock lightly and then open the door the rest of the way.
When Cameron hears me come in, he flushes the toilet like he's trying to hide the mess.
"Do you need anything?" I ask, hoping there's some way I can help. "Water?"
"Fuck off," he says weakly, not bothering to look up.
I don't fuck off though. Instead, I walk over and sit on the floor beside him, leaning my back up against the cabinets under the sink. Normally, if Cameron told me to leave I would, but right now he's in such a state.
"Ugh, nasty..." he moans.
He grabs a handful of toilet paper and wipes his mouth. "Fuck," he chokes out. "This never happens to me."
It's a pretty sad sight. He seems disgusted with himself, but I really don't give a shit. I've seen worse.
"We all have bad nights."
He scoffs.
"I'm serious," I say. "At least you made it to the bathroom. I've seen way nastier situations."
Cameron tries to respond but he doesn't get the words out. Instead, he dry heaves. Once. Twice. Then he vomits again.
"Oh my God," he says once he's done, propping his elbow up on the toilet lid and pushing his bangs off his forehead. "Oh my God. I feel like trash."
"You drank a lot, dude. You had a bunch at the bar and then most of that bottle to yourself when we got home."
He mumbles and grunts some unintelligible response, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. I wonder if all of this happened because of Jackson. I don't want to ask though. It would probably just upset him more. He sniffles loudly and then spits into the toilet.
"Stop staring at me," he demands.
"All right," I reply, looking ahead at the wall instead. "Um… are you sure I can't do anything to help?"
"Tell me something embarrassing," he says.
I pause, trying to think of something comparable to this.
"All right," I start. "Um…I got really drunk one time and fell asleep in the middle of getting fucked by some guy."
Cameron lets out a hoarse laugh.
"That… is believable."
Gee, thanks.
I sit there for a minute trying to think of something else I can tell him that wouldn't be too outlandish. Before I can though, Cameron sticks his head back in the toilet and pukes for a third time.
"Ugggh," he groans when he's done, gripping the lid and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Spins?" I ask.
"Fuck, yeah," he replies uneasily, sounding like it's going to happen again any second. "Ugh, this is fucking terrible."
I can't help but feel bad for him. Should I be doing more? I haven't been in this situation many times before unless I was the one puking my guts out. Only really with my dad.
Cameron's different from my dad, though.
I'm concerned to see Cameron like this. He's pale and visibly shaking. Everytime he seems okay and like he's finally done, he starts all over again.
He groans and flushes yet again, probably hoping this will be the end of it. He grabs a few squares of toilet paper and forcefully wipes his mouth, making a disgusted sound before tossing it into the bowl.
"Want to go back to bed?" I ask, getting ready to stand up.
Cameron doesn't respond but pulls his body away from the toilet, leaning against the wall and staring up at the ceiling.
"Not yet," he mumbles, resting the back of his hand on his forehead.
"No, seriously…" I gently urge.
At this point, it just seems like he's just throwing up because he's gagged out over the fact that he's throwing up.
"Ugh, fine," he seethes, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself as he stands.
Once he's to his feet, he looks at the toilet and groans. "Can you get rid of that for me? I don't want to look at it in the morning."
He wanders past me and out the door. I stare at the toilet. Okay, nasty, but whatever dude. I'm not too bothered by it, I'm just surprised he asked.
I fish around under the sink, looking for some sort of disinfectant. Cameron has a wide variety of cleaning supplies, which makes sense considering the appearance of his apartment. I can appreciate that though, and it makes taking care of the mess easy. When I'm finished, I wash my hands and then return to Cameron's room.
"Are you awake?" I whisper.
No answer. He's either asleep or not in the mood to talk. Either way, that's fine. I lie down next to him and just hope he won't feel too bad come morning.