Scrunching up her nose and twisting her mouth in confusion, Iris dipped her head to the side, and then to the other, swinging it back and forth as she took in her friend’s features. Giggling to herself, she tightened her grip around Peter’s neck, her fingers carelessly playing with his hair as she beamed up at the boy. He was so funny. He always said funny things! Like plastered? How funny!
“Plastered,” she repeated, sounding the word out slowly in the process. She wasn’t sure if she was having such difficulty fathoming it because it was so silly, or because she was an incy wincy bit drunk, but she didn’t mind! She wasn’t that drunk, anyway…
Still giggling at absolutely nothing, Iris squinted up at the boy. Her vision was getting a little blurry, and she was starting to see two of him! Which is totally crazy because she’d always thought there was only one Peter, but now there seemed to be two? Weird. Focusing instead on his words (rather than trying too hard to figure out which Peter was the one doing all the talking), she pouted at him, her nose crinkling when she registered just what he was asking her.
“What’s wrong with wine?” she mused. With her arms still wrapped around his neck, her fingers tickling the strands of hair there, she realised that the glass in her hand was starting to tilt, and she gasped aloud upon the realisation. Uh oh! She didn’t want to go spilling any of it down his neck! Withdrawing one of her hands, she pulled the glass close to her chest, before poking her nose into it and noticing that it was… oh. Empty! A soft giggle escaped from her lips as she lifted her gaze to meet Peter’s once more, his own laughter mingling with her own as he bumped his head against hers playfully.
“Of course I can stand, silly!” she informed him, biting down on her lower lip as she grinned at him. Positively beaming and thriving on just how cuddly and fun Peter was being, she stuck out her tongue in a teasing motion and twirled away from him. Dizzy and a little lightheaded, she bumped carelessly into a kitchen counter. With a soft oof noise, she set the glass down onto the side, and frowned as she felt a gentle ache coursing through her shoulders from the collision. Huffing, she turned her head back towards Peter, her forehead wrinkled in confusion.
She didn’t immediately find him, and it took a little bit of twisting and turning and readjusting her eyes before she finally spotted him. Or… one version of him. Now there were three Peter’s!
“Woah…” she muttered, her mouth forming a soft oh shape as she gaped at her friend. “There’s three of you!”
She’d all but forgotten the thud in her shoulders, now distracted by the ever multiplying Peter’s that were emerging in the middle of Isabella’s kitchen. She couldn’t help but let her mind wander at the notion, realising just how much Isabella would love the sight before her! Maybe she should go find her and tell her? Hmm..
“Do ya think I should? Go find her?” she mused aloud, before stopping short. She’d asked Peter the question, only to realise that the earlier part of the sentence had all been in her brain! “Oh. Duh. Silly Iris!”
Her feet began to ache, and she stared down at them in disgust as she pondered as to why. Noting the heels that she’d effortlessly slipped into earlier on that night, she groaned. They weren’t supposed to hurt! Iris never struggled with her heels, but now she felt like her toes were going to fall off!
“Izzy gave me these…” she muttered, glancing back up at Peter to gauge his reaction. He’d definitely care, he loved Izzy! They were bestest friends! “Izzy thinks you’re the best, did you know that? She does! She thinks you’re wicked cool. And so do I, but not in the same way… And, oh! Maggie from the soccer team, she likes you too. She says you’re handsome, which is true! And Mack from track – oh, haha, that rhymes! – he thinks you’re cute, and you make him blush. And Jason and Lucy from the swimming team both want to kiss you, which I told them wouldn’t be hard because you love kissing, and then Violet from the debate team–”
Iris froze as her own words reached her ears. Pouting, she tried to recall just what it was Violet from the debate team did think about Peter, and her eyes slowly grew wider as it eventually dawned on her. Oh. Violet from debate is also Violet from track and Violet from the cheer team which means that Peter knows Violet from debate, and Iris couldn’t quite remember but she was pretty sure that Violet and Isabella didn’t get along and Peter is Isabella’s best friend which probably means that Violet and Peter don’t get along and that’s super sad and Iris had said too much. Staring at Peter, her mouth opening and shutting dumbly, she instead opted to distract him. Dropping to the floor and landing squarely on her bum, she let out a loud, resigned sigh.
“I’m drunk,” she loudly stated.
“Wine is what a Stepford wife drinks when she’s worrying about her husband fucking his secretary,” Peter informed Iris, playfully tapping her nose before his arm returned to its former job of keeping her upright. “You know, like Izzy’s parents.”
It was a low blow, but Isabella wasn’t around to hear it. And even if she had been, it’s not like he couldn’t offer her an apology in the form of his tongue in her mouth. Just in case Iris wanted to tell him off for being rude and badmouthing someone’s family, Peter distracted the girl by dipping her back, the action coinciding with a swell in the music. Supporting her weight in his arms, he quickly pecked her forehead before setting her fully on her feet again.
He let out a petulant whine when Iris twirled away from him just so she could fail to make a point about being able to stand by herself. He had enjoyed the feeling of having her pressed up against him, and not in the usual dirty way he liked having other girl’s align their body with his own. Iris was a cuddler, and Peter had been all but starved for cuddles as a child, running wild and raising hell instead. But he threw his head back anyway when Iris collided with the kitchen counter then turned and loudly announced that there were now three of him.
“Uh, yeah, Cherry Grove should be so lucky,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows and reaching out to tangle his fingers with Iris’ as she huffed and puffed about her shoes that were drastically different from her usual pristine tennis whites. The heels she wore were definitely from the Isabella Tingley collection. Peter had half a mind to help her with them but then suddenly Iris was listing off all the people who were apparently a fan of his and that swiftly took precedence.
“Can you blame them?” he asked cockily. He swung their conjoined hands between the pair of them, raising an eyebrow when Iris halted as soon as she mentioned Violet’s name. Sure, Peter had long since come to terms with the fact that Violet wasn’t a fan of him, but it’s not like he cared. Peter wanted people to like him but not stuck-up cheerleading elitists with a superiority complex. Those he could do without, and it’s not like he wanted to sleep with her either. His sense of loyalty to Izzy had somehow managed to stretch that for, and his dick hadn’t protested yet.
“If she has a problem with me, you can tell her that – the fuck did you go?” Peter swung his head around, looking for Iris only to hear her cheerful proclamation sound from down below. Another snort tore out of him as he peered down at her, looking significantly rumpled and not at all like the usual smartly dressed, consistently composed Iris Hallow he was used to. But Peter liked this version of her, even if she was wine drunk.
“Oh, Little Iris, what are we going to do with you?” He shook his head and got down on the floor beside her, pulling her feet into his lap so he could try and make sense of the buckles on her shoe and help to pull them off. He’d managed, with a significant amount of giggling and tickling, to get one shoe off and was about to start on the other when nasty amount of beer sloshed down his side, spilling onto his varsity jacket.
“Hey, what the fuck,” he growled, head snapping up to see one of the guys from the wrestling team backing up and raising his hands in surrender.
“My bad,” he said, but the smirk on his face let Peter know it wasn’t an apology.
“Do you wanna fucking go, pal?” he asked, drawing himself up onto his feet.
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