This is a story piece written especially for you all, based loosely on real events. Enjoy!
x(X)x
It was actually pretty stupid, if you cared to stop and think about it. You’ve known the boy for all of three hours, when Orchid decided he was your ride to a meeting you were already late for and honestly didn’t want to attend. Three hours of sitting next to each other, making stupid faces and wishing the “we-don’t-want-to-attend-but-Orchid-has-this-way-of-twisting-you-into-doing-anything” meeting would go faster.
He had this way of catching your eye every time you glanced up to make it look like you were paying attention, and god did he have a nice smile. It lit up his whole face and it was just so sweet looking. And you’d smile back, then scrunch your nose and purse your lips to show your disdain for budget approval when you couldn’t actually vote on anything because you weren’t an official club yet, and you didn’t think his smile could get any bigger as he stifles a laugh. You’re suddenly incredibly glad you aren’t prone to blushing.
And here you are, three hours later, sitting in his dorm room and sharing a bottle of absinthe, the green liquid swirling in real glasses you made a special trip to his house for, because “you can’t drink absinthe from a plastic cup; it’s disrespectful to the liquor!”. And you know you shouldn’t be this stupid. He seems nice, sure, but so did Ted Bundy (not that you think he’s a serial murder, but a girl can never be too careful).
He has this habit of rambling, but at least he rambles about something intelligent, or at least funny. Like the time he and his friend agreed they weren’t going to get smashed, yet end up needing several people to retrieve cars just to get home, because god only knows where he ended up (he certainly didn’t).
He teases that you drink too slowly, and you tell him he drinks too fast, already pouring himself his second class of absinthe. You toss him the partially frozen bottle by your feet and he mixes the two liquids together. He’s surprisingly coherent for starting his second glass of 140 proof liquor. More coherent than you would be, but he’s got two years and at least 30 pounds on you, so that’s to be expected. Absently, you wonder how on earth you’re going to write your paper (or exactly what you’ll end up writing) if half a glass of now more-blue-than-green liquid leaves you this light headed. The room already swirls if you move your head to quickly.
You hear your phone ring from your bag. Dad lights up on the screen, the little picture flashing with the music. “Oh, hell,” you mutter.
“Think you can pull off sober?” He asks, laughing softly.
You return the grin. “We’re about to find out,” you say before accepting the call.
He pulls out his laptop while you talk to your father, fingers only slightly clumsy on the keys as he searches for “the most beautiful music video I’ve every seen, you have to watch it”. The video leaves tingles down your spine, but you’re not sure if it’s the music or the alcohol.
He’s sitting next to you now, instead of at the other end of his bed. You can’t help but notice how his arm rests on your knee so he can reach the mouse (you don’t understand how he can hate the trackpad). The previous uneasiness returns, but you can’t help but feel a little giddy; it’s been a long time since someone was interested in you, much less a guy. He keeps it casual, though. No bubbles invaded, just an arm resting on your knee and his shoulder against yours (but that’s more your doing than his. 140 proof liquor makes it hard to balance).
And so it goes. Music video after music video, balance slowly getting worse as you get closer and closer to the end of your glass. But it’s okay, because he sways just as much as you do. At some point, you decide it’s high time you start that paper (it’s due in three days anyways). Despite your inebriated gyroscope, you mange to give him a hug (though by the way he titled his head as you got closer, you think he might have been expecting a kiss), and despite your overly-intoxicated fingers and blurring-if-it-moves-too-fast vision, you type your number and spell your name in his phone without too much trouble. You make an off handed joke about hoping you make it upstairs without cracking your head open, and he calls you a lightweight. You call him an alcoholic.
You only almost fall down the stairs once and don’t fumble with your keys for too long before you’re in your room. You’ve had a horrible case of the munchies since the night before, but honestly, the idea of six flights of stairs, one of them spiral, just to get food doesn’t seem like a particularly feasible act right now. Instead, you steal a soy pudding cup (though it tastes just the same) from your suite-mate’s fridge, and laugh at yourself when you realize you really aren’t stealing anything; you bought the damn cups and they let you keep it in their fridge.
Pudding is apparently a good way to sober up. You keep that in mind for the next time someone offers you a sober-coffee. Although if you’re more thoroughly smashed, a sober-up pudding might make things worse.
Later, when you figure you’re more hungover than drunk because of the massive headache you’re sporting, you can’t help but find it a little pathetic that you’ve gotten drunk and sober on a Friday before 9 pm. You smile, though, as you think about the last thing he said.
“We should make this a regular thing.”
x(X)x
Wander safely (and I mean safely. The above story really wasn't all that safe),
Arc.
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