"Mierda."

The harshly hissed out word is the first one I hear this morning, tugging me out of my sleep as I blink about a thousand times.

"Hijo de puta."

Another harshly articulated phrase puts any chance I have of falling back to sleep far out of reach. And it's quickly followed by an onslaught of Spanish swearing. One eyelid flicks open, and Lucas Garcia is illustrated on his bed.

Hands running through his hair, he lets out a few more curses from where he's seated upright on his bed. His face has a healthier flush to it, far more healthier than last night. A night in which we are definitely not fucking speaking about. Ever.

Unless it's to verbally abuse David Harris, of course. Apparently, a confused queer who's spent so much time around shitheads and homophobes (exhibit A: Joe Miller) and dumbasses (i.e. the Chads), that his identity is something he might deny for the rest of his life.

But to put Lucas through the loop that he did? Queer or not, it was a shitty thing to do, and it warrants a punch in the face. Multiple ones, really. I run a hand through my hair, eyes finding Lucas, who lets out a frustrated groan.

"I'm such an idiot," He says. This time, his gaze finds mine, almost distractedly. "I never drink. And I don't get shitfaced drunk." His hands fly through his hair as he shakes his head, the happenings of the previous night falling onto him in terrible clarity.

Hopefully not all of it, though.

"Hey," I say, "we all get a shot at being idiots. Last time was my turn, this time's yours." A grin curves onto my lips as I use an elbow to hoist myself up as I rest on the floor, the place where I decidedly chose to spend the night.

At this, Lucas finally seems to see me, and his eyes widen as he blinks. "Jason?"

"Luc?" I ask, lips tilting into a playful grin.

"You stayed here?" He asks, finding my eyes, "for the entire night?"

"Uh," I drag on, blinking slowly. "Of course."

His eyes soften, lips falling into one of those gentle frowns, facial expression gentle as his eyes find mine. He's touched.

However, I'd be a complete asshole to have left him last night, not when he was so fucking vulnerable. The idea of ditching him never even occurred to me. His gaze feels too intense, so my eyes flicker to the ground, staying there.

And this moment is too filled with feeling, this room too emotional, Lucas' eyes too soft. So, after about a few seconds of this, I clear my throat. "Wanna head downstairs? You, uh, you probably want some Advil."

"Sure," Lucas says vacantly, eyes still on me in a way that's so tender that it's nearly painful. 

Eyes still overly-invested into the ground, my lips quirk into a small smile that's only directed at one Lucas Garcia.

***

Making our way downstairs, Lucas raises a hand to the back of his head as I rush ahead. The kitchen appears in front of me, and I carefully make my way through the doorway, Lucas trailing after me.

Rummaging around, I find a glass cup, a painkiller, and fill the glass to the brim with water. I give Lucas an expectant look, and he proceeds to down the painkiller, leaning against the counter as he does so. 

It's a slow drink, a careful swallow. Once he's done, he plucks a slice of lemon out of some secret compartment in the fridge, carefully placing it onto the rim of his glass, a self-satisfied, insanely Lucas Garcia grin curving onto his lips once he's done.

I clear my throat, awkwardly attempting conversation as I lean against the counter, Lucas leaning against the table across from me. "So..." I drawl, Lucas' bright eyes finding mine with sparkling amusement, "apparently David's an asshole."

At the name, Lucas raises a hand to his head, letting out a breath and rolling his eyes. "He craves attention. All the time. And I was fucking enthralled by him, so." A pause. "It was such a problematic situation."

"No shit." I say before I catch myself. Lucas just chuckles, giving me a light push from where he's standing, that soft smile returning again.

"But, you know, he isn't comfortable with the probability of him not being straight. He is, however, comfortable with using me to figure that out." A dry laugh.

"I'm sorry," I say, and Lucas just shrugs, a half-smile curving onto his lips. "David sucks." A pause. And with a teasingly solemn expression, I state, matter-of-factly, "we should cancel him."

And a cackle escapes Lucas Garcia's lips. "Shut up," he says through gasps for air. His laughter causes a grin to appear onto my lips. 

Once his laughter slows, he pauses, seemingly reminiscing as he tilts his head to the side. "I mean, he has one thing going for him: pretty eyes." A pause. "They have this blue-green going on. I think the eyes were what fucked me up."

"His eyes are overrated," I mutter, Lucas' gaze flicking to mine as though he's been pulled out of the world he was temporarily lost in. "You know," I say, "I prefer brown eyes." A pause. "You know, like honey-brown ones."

And Lucas Garcia stares back at me—all too obliviously— with his honey brown eyes.

His lips part, glass still in hand, and my heart just about self-combusts. That's alright, I think dryly, never needed it anyway.

Luckily for me, before Lucas Garcia can register anything, Luis Garcia enters the kitchen, duffle bag slung onto his broad shoulders, eyes with an easy calmness behind them, a flash behind them. 

He yawns, and Lucas' eyes narrow, burning into his brother's fists. I blink once as I try to zero in on what exactly it is he's seeing.

Meanwhile, Luis yawns once more, rummaging through the fridge, eyes roving over its contents.

While Luis stand there, completely carelessly, a signature hungry-and-tired college student vibe emitting from him, my eyes finally zero in on what Lucas is staring at.

"Your fists are bruised," Lucas says slowly, "what happened?"

And sure enough, splotches of purple and blue decorate Luis' knuckles. At Lucas' question, Luis' shoulder sag with ease. "No one's calling my brother shit and getting away with it. Nadie." Luis shrugs once more, grabbing a container filled to the brim with leftovers. 

I've officially decided that Luis Garcia is also, in fact, kind of cool.

Ever so gracefully, Luis shoves some of the food into his mouth, shoving the rest of the container into his duffle bag.

A grin curves onto Lucas' lips at Luis' reply to his question.

"Anyways, I gotta go," Luis says, waving a hand as he makes his way out the front door. He pauses for a moment before turning  around briefly. "No funny business."

Then the door shuts behind him.

Lucas rolls his eyes in return as my face pinkens at the statement, one that was pointedly in English, meaning Luis' intent was to make sure I heard every single word.

"He's stupid," Lucas says decidedly. "But he beat up Ed, so I'll allow it."

***

Not even minutes later, Lucas is seated on one of his couches, his glass now replaced with pink lemonade. His legs are drawn to his chest as he takes sips out of the drink, eyes clouded over in thought.

A little ways away from him, I'm seated on the opposite end of the large couch, eyes carefully drifting over him.

When Lucas' eyes find me, I raise my eyebrows as amusement rises to his features. "What?" I ask, lips parting in question.

Lucas lets out the sweetest little chuckle. "Your hair is kinda messed up."

Distractedly, I run quick hands through my hair, undoubtedly making it worse. "It's what I get for sleeping on the floor." I decide, shoulders falling into a shrug.

Lucas' lips part, eyes widening. "Oh, shit." He says. "You didn't have to, there's a guest room down the hall from my room and—"

"It's fine, really, Lucas." I cut into his painfully adorable rambling, giving him an assuring half-grin. 

Lucas sighs. But his eyes continue to rest on my hair, tongue poking into the inside of his mouth, eyes refusing to leave me. I can already tell that the imperfection is bothering him, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.

"At least let me smooth it down," The statement tumbles out in seconds, and it seems more begging than it does insisting.

I don't say anything, heart deciding to run a fucking marathon as Lucas sets his glass onto the side table next to the couch, rising to his feet and making his way towards me. I don't say anything as he lowers himself onto the part of the couch closest to me, our arms and legs grazing each other.

I don't say anything as my heart decides to run a fucking triathlon instead, or when my breath hitches.

He's so close, fuck.

And he's got that little half-smile on his lips too, the one that has a gentle tilt, the one that's careful but genuine. The one I'm used to.

The sun seems to dominate the entire room.

His hair catches onto it, his eyes, his skin. Everything. Him. 

I'm not sure whether my lungs are working anymore.

And carefully—so fucking carefully— he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. His fingers graze the side of my jaw, brush my cheeks, ghost my ear. He's slow as he does it. His eyes stay on mine. Completely unfaltering.

He holds my gaze, commanding attention without words.

I suck in a breath as Lucas leans closer. His whisper is soft against my skin. "Actually, you might be right about the brown eyes."

It's barely a hint of a voice, yet my heart pounds faster and faster. 

I don't say anything. My eyes just carefully drift to his lips. 

My eyes have been straying there far too often.

"Yeah," I breathe, "maybe it's the brown eyes."

And something like realization finally flickers across Lucas Garcia's face.

His features, his eyes, everything about him seems to be facing a dawning realization. My heart is beating so fucking fast. Lucas licks his lips, his tongue running over them, and I think I might be hyperventilating.

Somehow, my hand carefully rests on the curve of Lucas' neck, and he leans into the touch, intense eyes burning into mine. 

Lucas leans closer. Leans slowly, leans hesitantly, leans like the world is taking its time to explode. His eyes flicker to mine for one startling second.

And then, his lips are on mine.

The world explodes.

It explodes as though every second of wanting, of waiting, of endless time has reached its final point. It explodes as though everything and nothing is happening at once. It explodes as though every second I've ever spent wanting Lucas Garcia counts for something.

One of his hands rest on my leg, softly but firmly.

Despite the fact that just seconds ago, he was right next to me, now he's over me, just barely. Our legs are intertangled and I don't think I need oxygen anymore. Another hand cups my chin. Lucas Garcia is the type of kisser that seems to shatter worlds.

He's the type of kisser that you could kiss for hours but still end up wanting more. He's the type of kisser that pulls you in closely, getting drunk on the taste of his lips.

Lemon.

One of his knees is gently in between my legs as I gently lean against the arm of his couch, and he leans further in. It starts as a slow kiss, but soon, everything's moving faster.

In seconds, though, Lucas breathlessly pulls away. "This okay?" He asks. His lips are swollen, reddened, eyes with an intense energy behind them.

"Yes, it's fucking okay," I'm sure my voice is lost by now, but Lucas seems to hear me well enough. And soon, he's pressing his lips against mine once more. His tongue traces over his bottom lips before gently flicking against mine.

And his hands are tugging at my hair in ways that leave me unable to form coherent sentences.

Then he's laughing. He's laughing so gently that tears of amusement trickle down his cheek. He's laughing, and his lips smile against mine. And it's hard not to smile, hard not to laugh when you feel like you've been waiting for this moment for nothing short of an eternity.

He shifts, makes sure our teeth don't clink, but his laughter continues, and his hands grab fistfulls of my t-shirt, just tugging me infinitely closer, despite the fact that we probably can't get any closer.

Doesn't mean we can't try.

And we do. Everything about our torsos pressed against each other, our seemingly endless contact is infinitely too much. Yet too little. And the kiss is sweet, and I'm certain that by now, I taste like pink lemonade, too.

We pull apart, Lucas' eyes fluttering open. He's still flushed, hair still messy, eyes still wide. He looks like a mess of everything right. 

And I look like a mess, too. Just an utter mess. And I blame Lucas Garcia for it.

His nose carefully brushes against mine.

"I've never been kissed like that before," Lucas says, his voice thick with everything. It's weird, the way my skin burns just by hearing the tenor of his voice break out, those magnet-like eyes on mine, drawing me in.

"I want to kiss you again," I breathe, because my mind doesn't seem to want anything else. All it wants is the slope of Lucas Garcia's nose, the soft lips on mine, the honey eyes that glow underneath the sun, the brown curls that are infinitely exciting. Lucas Garcia.

Lucas Garcia just grabs the collar of my shirt and kisses me in return.

***

askdkjkk23sjhfhkdhd

i,, can't function

there,, the kiss ajsdhdbh it makes me so akdjdnkyg happy///