The very first thing that made Brody aware of his condition was warmth. This internal, glowing warmth that seemed to bloom from his chest right into his fingertips. Everything his hands found felt like live wires — in a good way.

Not a single conversation that night had felt real. He’d giggled through most of them, hands idly reaching out to pat at shoulders and nodding in the same sort of way a horse would. Up, down, up, down — Sideways.

He finds himself falling into more walls and people in that night than he has in a life time. And it’s as someone’s snapping in his face he realizes the major difference between his balance tonight and his balance this morning.

In his rush in returning from his break there were two things on his mind. One was the wondering exactly how he’d managed to leave a tab of MDMA in his locker completely free of any casing. The second was just how grateful he was that right next to it was an extra strength ibuprofen.

It was nearly three hours later, and he’d finally realized something.

“Holy shit.” he says quietly, the realization settling into him. There’s a moment where he only stands there, blinking and trying to remember further about the first half of his day.

finn  doesn't  see  brody  so  much  as  feel  him  -  a  sudden,  clumsy  tug  that  collides  warm  body  into  warm  body.  instinct  catches  before  thought  ever  bothers  to  show  up,  and  finlo's  hands  come  up  fast,  palms  open,  bracing  the  other  by  the  shoulders  like  he's  done  this  a  thousand  times  before.  “ whoahhh,  hey- ”  his  voice  comes  out  soft,  automatically  gentle,  the  way  his  voice  only  ever  gets  when  someone  stumbles  into  his  trajectory  instead  of  challenging  it. 

“Finn?” he questions. He’d seemingly forgotten that this was a party comprised of nearly all of his coworkers — to him, Finn being in right front of him was the weirdest part of this whole debacle.

Brody’s own hands lift, taking the other’s wrists loosely. There’s no clear intent or plan with the action — it’s almost like he’s trying to make sure the other is a material being actually in front of him.

At first, the other’s concern is met with confusion. It’s the kind of expression only the inebriated can make. Words lost to their own thoughts — mixing up— becoming something else entirely.

“I’m great!” he all but hollers, now squeezing and jostling the other’s wrists.