#(rf) graham

The moment he’d discovered exactly who had moved into one of the building A seventh floor penthouses, Gray’d been out the door, cereal left on the kitchen counter half eaten. He’d barely had time to say two words about where he was going to his roommate, hadn’t even put on shoes, sprinting in sweats and an old t-shirt along the grounds of the complex. The lift door was met by his hands onto its surface to keep himself from running smack into it, and all his energy and excitement surged into a hand that started pounding the call button.

There was only one person to date that could incite such excitement in him, a person he’d unfortunately had to say goodbye to last year. You’d think, in the age of technology, it wouldn’t be that big a deal – distance, in this day and age, was but a number – but Gray had always felt amputated by technology. It was good, absolutely, and it helped him keep in touch with people he otherwise wouldn’t have been able to, but he couldn’t hug them, or kiss them, or just sit with them and drink beer with them. For all the blessed good technology did, there were some things that distance still kept from him.

The lift dinged and he stepped in, slamming the button with the ‘7′ on it with as much fervency as he’d done the call button. The ride up felt an eternity and his fingers tapped against his thigh while his eyes were glued to the indicator above the door. Seven whole years had passed, according to Gray, between him getting in the lift and the doors parting again.

At any other point in time, Gray would’ve felt bad for the music blaring, the thumping of the bass that was currently vibrating the floor of the house. Right now, however, he didn’t care. He had a day off, February was going great, it was two in the afternoon, and he was tipsy on his way to drunk while mopping the floor in his underwear. His mind was far from what he was doing, using the mop rather to dance around the living room, currently vacuumed and cleaned, looking nothing like it was owned by two pro athletes. Overall, Gray didn’t mind messes a lot, but at some point it ended up fucking with his mind and he’d go on a cleaning spree.

Today, though, he was just in a good mood. Belting along to the music, he did a quick spin, the half-mopped floor gliding him along smoothly; it made him look like a much better and deliberate dancer than he actually was, and he wasn’t about to complain. Leaning over with one leg tipping into the air and using the mop to put his full weight on, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle of whiskey; something cheap and barely decent, but Gray’s mind wasn’t on the quality of the alcohol rather than inebriation because he could and he was a damn adult. His head moved back and the contents of the bottle spilled into his mouth and down his throat, burning all the way down.

The sun was beating down on his back, sweat dripping down it – heat and exercise combined – to the point where his shirt had started to cling to his skin uncomfortably, and he’d opted to just remove it. His mind was in overdrive, yet surprisingly focused as he jogged back to his building, burning with anticipation and nerves. Anxiety crawled through his gut and tugged at it, hadn’t let go of it for all of January. They were doing bad this month. The season had started so well, and while they’d broken their losing streak last week, every new loss threatened to shake his foundations.

So preoccupied with the match of that night, Gray nearly ran into an equally sweaty man at the end of a sofa; a gruff comment was made as the man carried the sofa into the house attached to the one he shared with Tanner, and Gray watched with a blink. For a moment, he thought about letting it be what it was – he needed a shower, and he was far too sweaty to meet anyone new, let alone a neighbour he might or might not have to deal with for a while. First impressions were always the ones that stuck, weren’t they?