Waking up in a uncommon place isn’t out of the ordinary for George. Finding himself in spare beds, occupied beds, couches, bedroom floors, bathroom floors, kitchen floors, back gardens, bathtubs, bins. It takes him a minute to adjust, to situate around the dull throbs echoing - his head. He can tell he’s in a bed - at least there’s that.
The first thing he realises is that it’s raining - hard. Pounding - against the window, the pavements outside. Almost in time with the aches circling his skull. He can smell it nearly as clear as he can hear it - window open. Cool air mingling with weed and coffee.
The second thing that breaks through the haze of his hangover, music. Drifting - he doesn’t recongise it, but it still sounds familiar. Quiet and angsty - if American Football and My Bloody Valentine had a baby. Emo lyrics, melancholy melodies - it reminds him of long days spent in Matty’s garage, Pete’s back garden, writing about everything and nothing. His youth - early adolescence. He likes it - deciding whoever put it on has good taste, rolling onto his back.
The third and final things that tells him where he is, who’s bed he’s in - the musk of jasmine and vanilla, fairy lights strung over his head - eyes opening, black sheer curtains, and familiar posters, pictures. A dorm room, your dorm room.
Sitting up, hand dragging through his hair - dim light, dark clouds, thunder rolling not too far in the distance. Lights flicker and tremble - casting shadows. Eyes heavy with sleep, glimpses of you - sat across the room, a desk chair, an old t-shirt, bare legs pulled your chest, hair a mess of waves around your shoulders, bed hair - spliff, hanging from your lips. Focused - your laptop, fingers relentless against the keyboard.
He watches through hazed vision - waking up, adjusting. That weird kind of feeling bubbling in his stomach, the more awake he becomes - not fully panic, but waves of anxiety, drunken amnesia. Thoughts of what he did, how he ended up in your bed. His jeans are still on but his shirt is gone, so are his socks. His feet are cold.
Blurred vision - hesitating on the bin, an empty Domino’s box, bottle of tequlia. The sight alone enough to bring his stomach to flip and throat to close, resurfacing memories.
Friday night, nearing ten - showing up unannounced with a tequlia bottle in one hand, a pizza box much too big for two people, and a smile that desperately tried to hide that something was wrong. And of course - a bit of weed. George.
Insisting that it was his way of saying thank you - a few weeks back, a bar, towards the end of the night, meeting him outside struggling to light a smoke. You were drunk but George was drunker. Completely wrecked with a dead phone and no Matty in sight, even after a few laps around said pub. You ended up bringing him back to your dorm, feeling inexplicably responsible for his well being. His tall frame and drunken limbs occupied most if not all of the mattress, a smaller than average double, so you left him snoring soundly on his side - in case he got sick, and crashed with one of your friends down the hall.
So a favour masked as a thank you - a thank you for taking care of him and a subtle plea to get drunk with him, give him a distraction. Because like most people who don’t deal with their emotions and refuse to face their problems, George simply wanted to get fucked up. He didn’t need to tell you something was bothering him, You weren’t one to pry. Instead of questions you pulled out leftover lukewarm beers from the temperamental mini fridge. Silent acceptance, George’s smile grew.
By twelve - the pizza box held nothing more than grease stains, empty sweet wrappers littered the floor, and idle conversations about nothing in particular circled the room, the low hum of Web in Front soundtracking. George’s focus on empty beer cans - triangled across the floor, tearing pages from an empty notebook, crumpling sheets into balls and flinging them in the general direction of the cans. Spliff - hanging from his lips, his aim, judgement is terrible. Something you laugh at between swigs of tequlia.
Entertained sounds only seeming to make him more determined - when he runs out of paper, grunts of frustration, pulling off a shoe and firing it at the cans. It too misses, instead finding a target in your lamp - knocking from the shelf, ceramic shattering over the floor. Your laughs fade into a gasp - eyes widening as they meet his.
He’s apologising - your exaggerated dismay, promises of replacing it, paying for it. Relatively blazed - finding his honest concern more amusing than you should, winding him up further. Telling him he can’t replace it - a special uni lamp, limited edition, made specifically for campus dorms, cost a fortune, and that you’ll have to pay for a replacement at the end of term.
Not quite believing that he’s actually buying it, probably the weed, or tequlia, or both - patting down his pockets in search for his wallet, mutterings of, “sorry - fuck, sorry, I’ll.. I can pay for…”
A bubble of laughter - finding the situation, George’s seriousness, suddenly immensely funny. Piercing through the illusion. Probably the weed, tequlia, both. Eyes - flickering to you, confusion, and then realisation. Practically hearing the click - gaze darting from you to the shattered ceramic.
A slow, deliberate sound. “You’re having me on.”
“You’re having me on,” Repeating - accusatory.
Fingers - a shard of ceramic, holding it out to him. An IKEA stamp. “A special Uni lamp - really, George?”
He blinks dumbly, the IKEA marking - “I’m a fucking idiot.”
“You’re an idiot,” resounding.
And then his hands were on you, pulling you closer to him, across the floor. Fingers - finding places that made you shriek, squeal. Laughter entwined with protests, scrambling, and, ‘I’ll fucking special uni lamp you.”
Vain attempts - to tell him that doesn’t even make sense, to break his grip on you. Something that finally happens when your foot kicks the tequila bottle, liquor spilling, your shorts. Breathless - you blame him, the trail of destruction he’s leading around your room.
A shrug, toothy grin, and sarcastic mumbles of promises to buy you new shorts and a new special uni lamp - reaching for skins on your desk, another spliff.
Glancing up - met with an eyeroll, telling him to let the lamp thing go, but still a soft sound, laughter. Something he intends to quip back to - tongue halting, turning to lead, bare skin, your legs. Tossing tequlia stained shorts into the corner, what he assumes is your washing pile.
He doesn’t quite know why his heart begins to kick - maybe it was the drink, or the weed, or maybe it was down to the lighting situation. Fairy lights - hues of blue, flickering over skin. Your average height - but it’s the first time he’s taken notice of how long your legs are, and how smooth they are, and how pretty they are - and fuck, he thinks he’s way too high, or drunk, or both. Knowing - Matty would get months of torment out of this if he were here, how he was borderline getting off to your fucking legs.
It only worsens - turning your back to him, faintly hearing your voice, quickly drowned out - blood rushing in his ears when you pull your tshirt over your head. Earlier stains of pizza, not escaping the splatters of tequlia - he’s faced with more bare skin, your back. Nothing but your underwear left.
His heart does that weird jack hammering into his throat kind of thing, his stomach flutters and plummets. Too high, or drunk, or both.
Blue, accentuating - a tattoo beneath your shoulder blades, stretchmarks scattered across your hips, paler skin - a scar running from the back of your thigh to knee, peaking curiosity.
And then your side profile, curve of your lips, dip of your nose - glancing back, calling out his name when you realise he wasn’t listening at all. Sounds of acknowledgment - sort of, he feels a bit dizzy.
Finally - putting him out of his misery, pulling an over sized thsirt from the drawer you had been rooting through. Much too big for you - he wonders if it’s actually yours or someone else’s. He oddly finds himself hoping for the first option.
“You gonna roll that or not?” asking, giving him a strange look, kneeling back on the floor beside him, pulling your hair back, ponytail. He thinks you look prettier like that, with your hair up. He doesn’t know why - he’s never really thought about you being pretty before, not this way. Maybe in a ‘just friend’s way’. Too drunk, too high.
Nodding - your question, but his fingers fumble, hands shake, mumbled curses. His heart still pounding against his ribs. Another laugh - from you, a drunken whisper.
“George, why’re you acting like you’ve never seen a girl in her knickers before?”
His throat - closing up, eyes meeting yours, feeling his cheeks flood with heat, thankful for the shitty lighting, and he doesn’t even know why he’s suddenly so flustered. Way too drunk, too high - the only explanation.
“I wasn’t - I mean, wasn’t watching you or anything, you were just-”
The more he fails to offer excuses, the more intense your gaze on him feels. Teeth - your bottom lip, attempts to suppress giggles, spilling past your lips anyway. Another realisation - that it’s a sound he likes, loves even, your laugh.
The Streets - somewhere in the background, when laughs fade to silence, but you’re still looking at him, and he still has that weird feeling in his stomach, and it’s suddenly way too hot, blood boiling under his skin.
He wants to kiss you. An unanticipated thought - almost intrusive. Your face - closer, unsure if it was him or you that had leaned in. Not missing how your eyes slide down, lingering on his lips. Conscious - that he’s done the same to you. Way too drunk, too high.
Half sure - that he can feel your breath, that you can hear his heart beating. The room spins, everything sudden, melting, moving too fast. The innocence of earlier in the night - spiraling after the fucking lamp, tequlia, weed. Skin - prickling, stomach churning, and before he even realises what’s happening, he’s sick, puking - right into your lap.
Dragging him back - he blinks.
A giggle weaving with his groan, head hitting the wall, closing his eyes. The room was too bright. Fucking tequlia.
“Yeah, you did. Fucking rank it was - all bits of pizza, and fucking red vines in it.”
He groans, again. Surprised - that you sound entertained by it, not disgusted. His skull feels like it has a pulse, or maybe his brain, or maybe both. Craving - to curl up and pass out under the duvet for another few hours, the more he remembers about the night before, the more he cringes, the more his head throbs.
A passing thought - if you knew, that he had wanted to kiss you. Not knowing what he’s more embarrassed about - the fact that he had turned all fifteen year old boy at the sight of you in your knickers and had worked himself up so much over the prospect of kissing you that he had puked on you or just the actual fact that he had puked on you.
About to apologize - catching up on your ealier comment, and instead of sorry, his tongue curls around, “I don’t snore.”
Voice - hoarse, sounding as bad as he feels. A scoff, and “yeah, you do.”
A small game - ‘Don’t’, ‘Do’ tennis.
Until - he finds the cold toast, lukewarm coffee, and a fresh spilff on the bedside table, starting to feel more human again. His phone, missed calls from Matty, not something he’s ready to deal with.
Quiet again - finally managing to open his eyes properly, asking what you’re typing, more so to hear your voice again rather than interest, and you call him out for it.
“Nothing you’d be interested in, just uni stuff.” Glancing over - a teasing sort of smirk, closing your laptop, rolling your chair over to him. He feels his stomach flip again, he’ll blame the hangover. Refusing to believe - that now sober, he still feels the same as last night, that you look equally as pretty in the morning light as you did last night, and that your laugh still makes him smile. Unintentional, unaware.
“Makes me sound like a bad influence.”
A shrug - telling him that’s because he is. That you were supposed to finish an assignment last night - ended up looking after him instead, again.
The rain is starting to die off - inconsistent splatters, outside. Wishing he could say the same about his headache, hangover. A creak in his neck, shoulder - sleeping awkwardly. A frown - a sudden thought, asking where you slept last night, the mattress hardly seeming big enough for two bodies.
Confusion - your answer sounding more like a question. “In my bed?”
“What, here?” Voice - an octave or two higher, he cringes at the sound, fifteen year old boy, again. In fact - he thinks he was a lot smoother as a teenager.
A nod - still with the same glint in your eye as last night, the look that told him you thought he was being a bit mental, a bit insane. Shifting - the space beside him, your lips tilting. Telling him you slept right here.
“-but don’t worry, I had these on,” fingers - tugging your tshirt, pajama shorts, “know how freaked you get over me in my knickers.”
Desperation - he laughs despite himself, a hoarse sound, then a groan, hands rubbing over his face. Knowing - you were not going to let that go anytime soon, and fuck, he needs a smoke.
Sun - breaking through the clouds, the window. It was too bright before - cloudy, torture now, sun rays echoing in his head, stinging eyes. Although - he likes the way sun catches your skin, hair - natural highlights. Gaze lingering - watching him watching you, until he has to say something, silence too heavy. Another drag - spliff.
An apology, sincere - for last night, the other night before that, for you having to deal with him messy drunk. Smoke curling - mingling with sunlight. Closer - again, too close. He remembers you get freckles in summer, adolescence. It’s only spring.
Fingers - stealing the last of the joint, a sound between a sigh, a laugh, his name. Shaking of the sorry’s, apology. Saying you like his hair - changing the topic. He’d been starting to grow it out again. Sunlight - your eyes don’t move, saying on his. He feels a bit sick again, leaning in anyway.
Lips - meeting yours, a soft halfway there kind of kiss. Lingering - until he pulls back. A snap of reality - another apology and, ‘dunno why i did that.”
You ask him, tell him - to do it again.
A mumble, a surprised sound - thinking he’s heard you wrong.
“Want you to kiss me again, properly.”
Lips - curving, not needing to be told twice. Despite the fact his stomach flips again, defying odds that he could puke on you again. He kisses you.
A different kind of kiss - starting off uncoordinated at best, spiraling into open mouths and tongues. Growing heated quite quickly. Your hands - his jaw, face. His hands - your waist, hips. Efforts to pull you closer - his lap. All heavy breathing, desperate sounds echoing, swollen lips. Heat - building, the more you press into him, soft sounds. Lungs - straining, neither you nor him even attempting to pull away, burning.
Perceptions - a new noise, George’s phone, ringtone. It goes ignored, dying out only to start again, seconds later. Sounds of annoyance, vibrating against his lips, his hands - dipping under your shirt, a silent reassurance. It’s when it happens a third time - you pull part, sighs of impatience, you reaching for his phone. Annoyed mutterings - why doesn’t he keep it on silent like everyone else. George - not missing your eye roll when you look at the screen.
He already knows - only one person who could have the most awful timing. Matty.
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