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Your hand is sweating as you paw at the arm before you, pen unwieldy in your grasp as you squint through too much alcohol and not enough light. It’s a nice arm, all things considered. A little out of focus and hard to grasp, sure, but you’re not the sort to hold that against him.
You forget who ‘him’ is, somewhere along the way. It doesn’t matter. What does very much actually matter, is you write your number on his very nice-looking arm.
‘What’s my number?’ You mumble. The arm doesn’t respond. The man attached to said arm does though, a chuckle that makes you feel all sorts of good things and has you ransacking your brain a little more desperately.
‘I can’t help you there, what with it being your number,’ he says, a shrug you can feel in the arm still trapped between hand and bar. His free hand reaches between you, returning with your half-finished – and disgustingly expensive – drink. You make a grab for it, somehow missing even as the drink triples before your eyes.
‘That’s mine,’
‘Darling,’ and oh, don’t you love that a bit too much? All rich and mocking in a lovely little package, as if he’s just short of giving you a condescending pat on the head. ‘You’re swaying so much, you’re making me sea sick. I’m cutting you off.’
And downs your stupid, fruity little drink in one. The grimace wipes all traces of that smug smile away, sure, but it also took your drink with it.
‘You can’t do that,’
‘I can, just did in fact,’ Damn, smug smile is back again. No one should look that good at 3am, sweating in a club. There’s got to be a law or something. He leans into your space, just barely, all smiles and pretty eyes that makes the room spin (even moreso). ‘If you’re still suffering so terribly from amnesia, do you think I could have my arm back? I’m losing sensation,’
Oh yeah, the arm. The arm you have to untether yourself from, smoothly turning that death grip into a caress. It goes a little clumsy, somewhere in the middle, but that’s alright. He doesn’t seem put off, if anything he’s moved a little closer. A hand to your hip, warm and reassuring as you pet his stupidly lovely arm like a dog.
‘I’ve completely forgotten your name,’ You admit, apropos of nothing. He laughs, eyes a squint and head softly shaken. You lean forward under the pretence of embarrassment, but really, a face like that just calls for a closer look. ‘You told me it,’
‘I did,’ A sage nod. ‘Pagan,’
‘Padwan’
‘No,’
‘Paddle,’
‘No!’
‘Just so you’re aware, I’m not just using you to stay upright,’ You’re not, at all. Not entirely, anyway. Just he’s very broad and you forgot just how tall he was until he stood up, it was either grab at those stupid shoulders or try to climb him like a tree.
Hands – entirely too large to be anything but distracting – hold your elbows, steadying your Drunk Wobble that you didn’t even realise you had. ‘I see, so this is your idea of flirting?’
‘It’s a vari-vali,’ Wow, words are hard and your mouth is not co-operating. Panda is staring, a grin at your expense as his hands rub absentmindedly at your forearms. Oh, wow, wicked but really not helping the brain funk. Abort. ‘It’s a very brave attempt, yes.’
‘Brave, or brash?’ Of course you choose that very moment too sway oh-so-smoothly into his chest, arms braced against surprisingly toned pectorals. Awesome. You must be wearing your appreciation – or leer, if you’re being honest – on your drunk little face, if the laugh that travels from Paper up your arms is anything to go by.
What was the question?
‘Yes.’ Good enough.
‘I’m not usually like this,’ You mutter in the weird quiet that’s settled between the two of you, speaking more into his offensively pink clavicle than anything else. You’re still swaying, clutched to Pager in an almost slow dance.
‘Drunk and half asleep?’
‘Ye- no!’ Outrage doesn’t sound right when you’re slurring this much, it just serves to make him laugh all the more. Which is completely fine, his chest rumbles real nice. ‘Yeah,’
‘Duly noted, what a relief that is!’
You want to call him a bitch, you really do, but you want him out of that stupid floral shirt more. Wisely, you keep your mouth shut and focus on not being sick into a gutter instead.
You’re totally killing it.
Untucking a shirt shouldn’t be this difficult, but it is because you’re drunk and strangely nervous. All thumbs and eagerness that does nothing to help you, especially when those too large hands still your own. That’s fine, you have a face that can inelegantly swoop in on his own. Totally fine.
Except when Paneer swoops away, just out of reach and still grinning that stupid bloody grin that you both love and hate.
‘Dude, what gives? Get undressed. Let’s go!’ You give your hands within his own a shake, giving the shirt a tussle in your grip.
‘Not with you falling about the place, I’m not,’ he tuts, actually tuts at you as you’re moved carefully to the edge of your thoroughly messy bed. He bends, rifling through a drawer beside you. ‘Do you have pyjamas?’
‘What? No, wait, what?’ The ransacking of the drawer pauses, your face screwed up in drunken confusion. ‘You brought me home to put me in pyjamas?’
‘Of course, don’t look at me like that!’ he looks just as confused as you feel, rolling his eyes as you continue to frown up at him. ‘It’s not a kink. I couldn’t exactly leave you to get home by yourself now, could I?’
‘I thought you were coming home with me,’
‘I am, I have, and you’re now going to get into bed and wake up to one nasty little hangover.’ A pair of pyjamas – adorned with grinning Santa faces – land in your lap, you didn’t even know you had those.
You don’t wake up so much as you become horrifically aware that you head is full of tiny demons, all screaming to get out. Ah, drink, you remember barely any of it but the pain is very familiar. You squint an eye at the Santas as they cheerfully grin up at you, bemused and only a little creeped out. Hands grabbing for your bedside table, you pat around for your phone. Instead, your hand collides with a bottle of water.
Squinting upward, you see the bottle has a post it note stuck to the side. Leveraging yourself that tiny bit closer, you can just make out the elegant scrawl of a number.
“For when you can see straight,” Beneath that, in the most passive aggressive block letters you’ve ever seen. “PAGAN.”
‘Who?’