Gunnar wakes up in his dorm room on a Friday in April and notices three things in rapid succession. The first is that he's stark naked and smeared with cracking finger paint. The second is that his roommate Jonathan is standing over him, obviously horrified. And the third is that he's holding out Gunnar's phone to show a text message that says, "God, my ass hurts. I can't even sit down properly. Cheers to you. Coffee at 1?"

The boys just stare at each other for a solid five-count, both waiting for some kind of explanation the other doesn't have. Gunnar, always the quicker one on his feet, breaks the silence, "Any idea as to what this is all about?" He gestures randomly, because honestly, there're quite a few things he's wondering about at the moment. The first, though, is the state of his ass. So he wriggles experimentally to find that everything seems to be intact—including, apparently, his gay-virginity. Not that he's gay. Just that he's assuming from the text that he was involved in some sort of debauchery with a fellow male last night. The thought is disconcerting, but he doesn't really want to dwell on it presently.

Jon shrugs, "I just got back from Cara's and you were here like, err, this. So I checked your phone 'cuz I thought maybe Jessica would have texted some kind of clue about how you ended up here but instead that was in your inbox. There are a few obvious questions I have, but you seem to have no clue what the fuck hit you so I'm going to go and leave you to your misery for the time being."

"Wait!" And suddenly Gunnar is a little desperate, sleep having worn completely away, "So you really don't know what's going on?"

Jon shrugs, "No clue. Sounds like you might have had some fun though." Gunnar chucks his pillow at Jon's retreating form and drops his head in his hands with a groan.

He reaches for the pad of paper by his bedside table and starts constructing a to-do list, which is an activity he partakes in during times of extreme stress, now being a prime example. Not that anything like this has ever happened to him.

Taking a deep breath, he titles it "Things to Do When One is Completely Ill-Equipped to Deal with His Current Situation."

1. Shower

2.

And here he draws a blank because, well, because he's ill-equipped to deal with his current situation, obviously. Snatching his robe from the hook on the door, Gunnar flees towards the community bathrooms, convinced that ridding himself of the body paint will at least make him a little more comfortable. In general. Not so much with the idea that last night it seems as though he may have been very well acquainted with someone sporting the same apparel as Gunnar. And that's as much detail as he can spare that thought right now.

He scrubs viciously away at his body, taking stock of the damages which quickly reveal themselves as the paint-colored water sweeps down the drain. For one, he has twin bruises on the front of his shoulders. What the hell—oh god. Heel imprints? His back smarts as the hot water pelts on it and he twists uncomfortably to catch a glimpse of long scratches trailing down his back to rest just above the swell of his ass. And possibly most horrifying of all is the smattering of hickeys on his hips and inner thighs.

So, he now has to swallow yet another disturbing fact: whatever happened last night hadn't exactly been a quick and messy endeavor, but one that involved some unknown amount of foreplay and full-body contact. He drops his forehead to the wall, which is a sketchy sort of dangerous in a community bathroom, and he regrets it immediately. In his quick recoil he makes one final, gut-wrenching discovery: against all odds and logic, Gunnar Jr. is standing at full attention, apparently stirred on by the memory of a long and torturous love-making session with another somebody's Jr.

Gunnar glares at his own personal Benedict Arnold and decides that at the very least, a quick jerk-off in the shower might provide him with a little dose of endorphins that will undoubtedly make the morning better. Anything, at this point, will make the morning better.

After indulging himself, he creeps back to his room, not relishing in the idea that he might see someone in the hallway. That they might ask him how his Thirsty Thursday had been. Once safely hidden behind his closed door, he allows himself a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts, which are admittedly too content bouncing wildly around his brain to allow Gunnar to corral them in any way.

He dresses like it's a normal Friday and that he'll be walking across campus at 10:40am. That he'll stop at the library for a coffee and a quick make-out session with his girlfriend Jessica, who works as a page there. That he'll make it to class just in time to be late like the badass he is. That he'll suffer through two back-to-back classes and be done at 1:00pm. That he'll—a stray thought squirms in the back of his mind but he ignores it because he's decided that he's just going to forget about this whole thing and carry on with his routine. He wonders why he was even worried about it in the first place. This is college. Crazy things happen. Especially on Thirsty Thursdays.

As his first post-forgetting action, he flips open his phone and deletes the incriminating text. 'There,' He thinks. 'Back to normal.' Chuckling, he swings his bag over his shoulder and grabs a granola bar for the trek, making sure to lock his door behind him.

It's a perfect kind of spring day out and Gunnar dons his aviators against the brightness of it all. He takes his time towards the library, enjoying the breeze and the people and the fact that he's letting himself off the proverbial hook and just going about his day.

The problem that he's unwilling to admit is that the whole thing is still driving him crazy. It's like he's in mid-sentence, looking for the right word to use, and no matter what he does his brain won't stop searching for it. Only in this case, it's not a word but an event. And it's like he's sifting through sand, trying to catch a glimpse of anything that'll give him a clue as to what happened last night. And it hardly matters that he really does not want to know. Because if he's honest with himself, of-fucking-course he wants to know. Every painful second of it. Or maybe not so painful, judging by the pleasant exhaustion still humming through his muscles. But he's not going to go there.

He orders a coffee. Black. Partly because he's punishing himself, mostly because he feels more like a man if he drinks it this way. And then, he goes in search of Jessica, eager to go a little farther than normal to reassert his straightness. He finds her in the stacks, perfect, and doesn't inconvenience himself with more than a 'hello' before he's got her pressed against the shelves, hand creeping under her skirt and past her underwear. She moans and he's on fire, sipping his coffee and working his magic, and it's like he doesn't know how he could get better than this, but then she's pushing him back and looking around like she actually gives a fuck what people think of her (which, maybe she does, Gunnar has never bothered to ask). "Where were you last night?" She asks accusingly, and Gunnar's stomach clenches in the way it does when he knows he's going to have to break up with a girl for being too pushy. He really doesn't like breaking hearts after all.

Since he's already decided to break it off, he goes for the truth. "Well, apparently, I was fucking a guy into my mattress and doing something else that involved finger painting. You?"

His fingers still aren't completely out of her when she jumps back and he knows it has to hurt because of the expression on her face that's a little too much of a wince to be completely about the fact that he cheated on her with a guy. "Are you shitting me?"

He shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee, and checks his watch. 10:57. Time's up. "Nope. Listen. This" he gestures between them, "is just not working for me anymore. Also, I've gotta go. Class."

"Because of some guy? Are you queer or something?" She's kind of squealing now, and he wags his finger at her because she really should at least pretend to be an adult about the whole thing.

"No. I'd say this one rests on you. Now, please, I can't be late."

"You're such a bastard."

"Worse things have been said," he calls, already halfway out of the aisle. And he gives her a little wave before leaving her in the history section.

He smirks a little, because let's be real, that was the most interesting break up he's ever had, and swaggers to class to make it right as the professor is reading his name off the role-sheet. God, his timing is superb. He really is the coolest person he knows.

Everything seems to be looking up until 11:32 when his teacher is doing a great monotone reproduction of every fucking word the textbook already taught him, and Gunnar is squirming in his seat to get out of there. Suddenly, things take a turn for the worse. The absolute worst, in fact, because Gunnar catches a glimpse of some chick's bright yellow shoelaces and it's like BINGO, there's the thing his racing mind has been searching for. The word. He found his word. Which is really a memory.

Teeth scrape across his inner thigh and he's never been more aroused or ashamed in his life. Who'd have thought arts and crafts could turn him on this much? Blue eyes smirk up at him and a long finger glides across his ribs in a long, yellow wave. Gunnar arches up as a mouth that shouldn't be legal sucks him in and a rough tongue licks a searing stripe from base to tip and over his weeping head and he's fucking panting because the same finger, now with green paint, is making a swirling pattern around his navel and Gunnar comes and comes and comes and he's sure he'll die because the room is spinning and he's actually seeing stars.

"Oh," Gunnar gasps, and yellow-shoelace girl is glancing over her shoulder at the outburst. He stumbles out of his desk and leaves, catching a quick glimpse of his professor looking startled but he doesn't care because he's got to find a bathroom and take care of this problem before he can deal with anything else.

But it doesn't help. Not at all. Because once he has himself locked in a stall, one hand holding him up, the other wrapped tight around his cock, memories are tipping over him like a deck of falling cards.

A hoarse chuckle followed by an earth-shatteringly sexy voice moaning his name. When the fuck has 'Gunnar' ever sounded so good?

His own fingers, each one of them dipped in a different color, sliding down his (whose?) sides, across muscled thighs. Pulling those legs apart to wrapping them around his hips. The quiet breathing that follows when he's just looking, gazing, staring hotly at this man below him. Thinking that he might actually be in love for the first time since he was dumb enough to believe in such a thing.

A heat. A slick, tight, pull-him-under kind of heat. All around him, and it's eyes, hands, lips and the noises coming from the both of them are enough to make his toes curl and his eyes roll back and he's—

Coming. Hard. For the second time this morning.

'What the hell?' He thinks, shaking so bad that he has to catch himself with both hands so that he won't topple over.

It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to calm his breathing down from the panting gulping gasps that his orgasm left him with. But then he's back again, he's cool and everything is fine, but he's got to get out of this basement bathroom and to somewhere where he can process all these split-second images that just won't quit flitting across his mind's eye. He storms out and rushes up the side-stairs and out into a cloud of smoke from all the professors huddled there between classes. He takes a swallow of the second-hand nicotine, hoping it'll tie up some of the loose ends of his nerves and soldiers on towards the main campus where there are trees to sit under and think. Think. Like the Buddha. And that's fucking what he's going to do. He's going to just meditate on this thing until it's out of his system.

From what he's gathered, last night began with a party (as most of these types of things do). From there to his dorm room it's a blank but as soon as he and this man step in the room it's like Gunnar has never lived a moment in his life that isn't connected to him. Everything is hot and smooth and stiff and he's lapping at a cock that he can't seem to get enough of and he's never been so hungry in his life.

In present time, Gunnar's head thunks against a tree. An oak. Or maybe a cedar. He doesn't give a shit. But he's realizing that what he does give a shit about I figuring out a way to repeat last night and never stop until he's done. Which he thinks won't be for a long time. Since when has he ever felt such want? He groans, feeling a little dizzy and minus a center. Nothing has ever struck him this hard, this fast and he doesn't even know who it was that opened his eyes to all this color.

'So, I've got to find him,' he thinks. But then he remembers that he's already deleted the goddamned text so he's got no way of knowing which coffee shop he's supposed to meet this mystery man at, and beyond that, he can't really even remember specifically what the guy looks like.

Only that he had brown hair that was a little too silky to get a good grip on, but long enough to try. Only that those eyes weren't any special kind of blue, just blue, and that they narrowed slightly during a moan. Only that the skin of his neck flushed when he came. That his toes curled and his thighs tensed. That his—

"Shit." Gunnar hisses, because he's sitting under a tree completely failing at this Buddha thing because he's really not coping well with all this thinking. But there's really no other option and suddenly he gets the idea that maybe if he could just see this guy once, he'd know. He'd remember. And then he'd—well, he doesn't really know what he'd do at that point, but Gunnar's never really been the plan-ahead type of person so that's not really his first concern.

The only thing he really has to go on is the coffee. Praying to whatever fates he can think of, he decides his best bet will be the shops on campus. There are three. Four if you count the one downtown which he doesn't because only the art and fashion kids are downtown and so naturally a red-blooded male like himself stays close to main campus and—

Finger paint.

Oh.

And then he's to his feet and his thighs are straining a little because they're sore and he smiles because if he's right, they'll be sore tomorrow as well. Walking briskly towards the bus stop on Holland, he spares a brief moment for the thought that he may not be right. That he may be completely off-base. That somewhere, in a coffee shop halfway across town, the hottest fucking fuck he's ever had will be nursing an aching ass without him.

And then he thinks, and honestly it's a valid question on a day like today, 'What the fuck am I doing?'

A/N: What the fuck am I doing? Two stories at once? What is this madness?? Anyway, well, there you have it.