🎀 Jan. Fluff. One Drunken Night [G] 🎀

Word Count: 1174

You groan, pulling the blankets over your face. You're drunk - too drunk - and all you want is to sleep. Yet, someone keeps trying to get you to drink water.

"Come on now. Just one sip," G pleads, their tone bordering on one they would use when trying to give a cat medicine.

G tugs on the blanket gently, slowly pulling it down so that the overhead light won't be too blinding. "No, I don't need it," you murmur, stubborn as ever.

G sighs heavily, brushing the hair from your face. They flinch slightly when your breath escapes.

"You're drunk." G deadpans.

You scoff, attempting to glare. All you manage to do is scrunch your nose. "The softness that takes over their expression, the warmth filling their dark eyes—unexpected, yet so familiar. The way they looked at you that night, that feels so long ago.

 "I'm not drunk. Besides, you said that two sips ago,” you retort, holding up three fingers. Yeah... not drunk. Just bad at math.

A laugh bursts from G's lips as they watch you try again, this time managing four fingers. But the laughter is gone too quickly. Their expression shifts to one of quiet consideration, and their hand brushes your cheek. Cool fingers linger as if they're reluctant to pull away.

If you were sober, you would see the war within them. So many unspoken questions linger - why you showed up drunk at their door, why their bed became the one you chose to fall into, why your scent now lingers on their sheets.

Maybe tomorrow.

"Please," G whispers, their voice barely audible and laced with pain. So much pain that you don't notice. Nor do you catch the way their fingers hesitate, aching to cup your face. "Just one... just one-"

Sip, they want to say, only for the word to be lost, the glass of water in their hand forgotten. Their lips hover near yours, close enough for their breath to graze your skin. Green tea, you think in the haze of your mind. G.

Why would you smell green tea if you're home in bed? It must be a dream - it has to be. And if it's a dream, then what you do next is alright.

Your hands slip around their neck, fingers threading into their dark hair. G's breath hitches, and you pull them closer. Soft pliable lips, brush yours. Their gasp dissolves into a kiss, followed by a soft moan. The sound sends a shiver through you.

It feels so real, the way G bites into your lip, eliciting a hiss. The pain fades away to the pleasure of how softly they cup your face. A feather-light touch, as if they hold the most precious thing between their hands. But to think that’s you… after everything. You’re definitely dreaming.

“We… mph,” G presses their forehead, sucking in a breath, “we can’t do this.”

Not a good dream then, noted. “Why not?” It seems you’ve never forgotten the planes of their body, the way your fingers and your lips remember each place that drives them wild. Your fingers tug at the buttons of their shirt, and only then do you notice how fast they’re breathing.

“You’re drunk.” Even in your dreams, G is responsible, a trait you seem to be lacking for the night.

“Drunk or sober,” You mutter, undoing the final button. “it doesn’t change that I want you.” Your hands slip the shirt off their shoulders, and G never stops you.

Your fingers trace the planes of their body like muscle memory—until something feels wrong. There are unfamiliar ridges now, barely visible in the low light. Your brows knit together as your fingers hesitate over them. Four small scars, one near their belly button, the others across their abdomen. New, or new to you.

You stare, trying to reconcile the past with the present, and your breath grows shallow.

G didn't have these before.

Which means...

The warmth of the alcohol vanishes like a tide retreating from the shore, and your stomach turns. The kiss. The words. The way their breath hitched.

It wasn't a dream. It was real.

"I-I'm not dreaming."

“No. You’re not.” G’s eyes don’t harden, yet their touch leaves you, as they shrug their shirt back on and button it once more. “though I might be.”

“What?” Is it possible for alcohol to play on your hearing? Because it’s definitely messing with it now.

You’re back hits the pillows, G’s pillows, taking in the sight before you.

You went out, you got wasted, and you… came here. One door away from your apartment, so maybe that mix-up isn’t so bad. But they didn’t turn you away, they didn’t shut you out. They tried to get you to drink something and then you… kissed. And they kissed you back.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why… I didn’t mean to interrupt your night. I should go-“

“To sleep, I agree. I’ll leave a bottle of water on the bedside table. Be sure to sleep on your side.”

Still, G doesn’t tell you to leave. Maybe you look worse than you realize, maybe this is just some bedside manner that was drilled into them back when they were in school.

You nod, making yourself comfortable, or as comfortable as you can be. G grabs a blanket from a closet, and an extra pillow to go with it. They flick the light switch and you think when they turn it’s to wish you a good night.

“I have to ask,” It’s like they’re battling with themselves, whether to say what’s on their mind or bury it like they do the lingering touch of your lips. They shake their head, causing their hair to ruffle lightly. “Never-“

“Ask me.” If it’s a question you want to forget, hopefully, the amount of alcohol in your system will help you forget it in the morning.

“Did you mean it when you said drunk or sober that it… that you’ll still-“ G doesn’t finish the sentence, you know exactly what they’re referring to. The question is if you’re honest with your answer. Because being honest can make it even more complicated. But lying to them is the last thing you want to do.

“Yes. Even in the morning, when I’m not a complete drunken mess.”

G's breath comes out slowly, and their fingers brush against their lips. Their gaze flickers over you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the weight of your confession hanging between you.

They swallow hard. "Good to know," they murmur, but there’s something in their voice—relief? Longing? A quiet, painful hope?

Their touch is like a ghost, barely noticeable if not for the heat of their body as they pull the blanket up over your shoulders, and reach you a glass of water. "Drink this, and then get some sleep."

They linger, their eyes too as they head to the door, just a moment too long before they finally leave you with your thoughts and your actions.