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Curly takes in Anya’s drunken state with something close to horror, remembering exactly how this scenario had played out for him the last time. She’s resting her head on the arms of their sofa, giggling down at her lap, clearly more than tipsy. Her head lifts up slowly when he calls her name.
❝ Grant, ❞ she says, breathy and like molasses on her tongue. He can’t gauge any specific emotion from her voice.
❝ Hey, love. What happened? I was only gone for… uh… ❞ He checks his watch. Twelve hours. Shit .
❝ …A couple of hours. ❞
Anya pouts, almost comically so. Her bitterness over Curly having to work more than half the day every day is obvious, but with Pony Express going down the gutter, and Anya needing more time for her studies, they need to make an income somehow. She takes the bottom of his jacket in her hands, and pulls him towards her. He dips his chin to his chest to take her all in, looking down at her glassy-eyed expression with some sympathy and more apprehension.
❝ You okay? ❞ He asks nervously.
❝ I was really stupid, ❞ she starts with a huff, ❝ I was so bored, I talked to Daisuke, like, an hour ago? I had one of his brownies. Then I had some wine… the red one you like. ❞
Oh! She’s high . Of course she is. The weed must‘ve really kicked in while he was gone. And then, ❝ Hey, you drank it without me? I thought you were saving it for a “special occasion” . ❞
Anya hiccups. ❝ I lied, Curls, ❞ her voice, her tone, makes Curly want to laugh, suddenly so solemn and serious. She shoves her face into his chest and sighs, an apology. He accepts it, running his fingers through her thick black hair. He crumples over until his lips brush her forehead. She hums in content.
❝ Are you feeling okay? ❞
❝ I’m actually really hungry. ❞
His eyes slip close in exasperation. God, what was he going to do with her?
She laughs, all so sudden yet the carefree nature of it all makes Curly flush. ❝ What’s so funny, Pinocchio? ❞
❝ Pinocchio! ❞ She laughs harder, dizzy giggles that warm his chest before saying, ❝ Hun, are you saying my nose is a foot long? That is so awful . ❞
He rolls his eyes and pulls away from her grip. ❝ Here, c’mon. Let’s go raid the pantry. ❞
Their pantry is pretty well stocked with snacks, and Curly doesn’t even feel remotely bad ruining that in the name of his girl. ❝ Here, you like the strawberry Pop- ❞ he cuts off, having turned and found Anya sitting on the floor, criss-cross-apple-sauce. ❝ Babe. ❞
❝ Yuh? ❞ She asks, looking up.
He sighs deeply and sits down in front of her, offering the box of Poptarts tentatively. She takes them without looking at them, her gaze roving over his face greedily. Curly scratches his neck and tries not to show how shy he feels when she’s looking at him like that.
❝ Take a picture, it’ll last longer, ❞ he says dryly.
❝ I don’t have a camera. ❞
He chuckles to himself and shuffles as close as he can, his knees brushing her crossed legs. Anya struggles with the Poptart packaging, fingers clumsy with the cardboard. She rips open the foil and it splits wide, the pastries falling out and into her lap, a hail of crumbs over her clothes.
Curly takes the tarts into his hand and uses the other to brush his fiancé down. ❝ Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You… meant to take it, right? ❞
Anya frowns. ❝ You don’t take pot. ❞
❝ You didn’t smoke it, ❞ he argues, forgetting the point.
❝ I ate it, ❞ she agrees, taking back her tarts. ❝ I feel great, Curls. Super. You want one of these? ❞
❝ No, I’m okay, love. You have them both. Enjoy your meal. ❞
She grins and sandwiches the Poptarts together, taking a big bite that sprays another wave of crumbs down the front of her tank top and onto her sweatpants. He doesn’t bother brushing these ones away, staring at her unabashed. A familiar nauseous feeling blooms in his chest and at the pit of his stomach as Anya works her way through her sugary snack. She gets a stripe of pinky-red icing on her face, from the corner of her mouth to the dimples in her cheek.
❝ Here, ❞ Curly says, waving a hand towards her face. She melts towards him and he wipes it away.
She’s looking at him intensely.
❝ What? ❞ He asks through a laugh, pausing his work. Anya smiles, dumb and wide and toothy.
❝ You… ❞
❝ I…? ❞
❝ You’re so pretty. Handsome, ❞ she corrects hurriedly.
❝ Pretty? ❞ He tilts his head.
Anya nods heavily. ❝ You’re pretty. My… ❞ Curly slides his fingers under her ear. ❝ My pretty boy. ❞ She smiles, lashes fluttering ever so slightly, nothing but love on her face as she leans into his hand.
❝ You have the nicest face ever. ❞
❝ What’s the matter with you? ❞ Curly chuckles nervously, rubbing her cheek with his thumb, just rough enough for her head to bob backwards, just how she likes it. Her eyes close fully in response. Her smile grows.
❝ Nothing, ❞ she says, adamant.
He pulls her towards him. She’s pretty floppy, falling into his embrace, her face full of his collar. ❝ You’re sooo pretty, ❞ Anya whispers.
❝ Stop it. ❞
❝ You are, ❞ she insists. ❝ Look, ❞ her hands squish his cheeks.
❝ Look at your face. ❞
❝ I can’t look at my own face. ❞ Curly deadpans.
❝ Okay, I’ll do it. ❞
He presses his lips together, no more protests and lets her play with his face, gently brushing across his features, then less so. Her eyes track over his mouth, his nose, his mouth, his beard.
❝ Grant, ❞ she murmurs.
❝ Anya. ❞
Her teeth appear as her smile grows blinding. She catches another case of the giggles and they’re infectious, the two of them laughing as her hands fall from his face to his neck and she wraps her arms around him, climbing into his lap. Curly accepts her readily, hands resting on her hips, placing pecks all over her face. A big breath escapes him as he tucks her into his arms.
❝ Alright, ❞ he says, sighing, palm spreading over the breadth of her back.
Anya presses her face to his neck. ❝ Prettiest boy ever. ❞
❝ Give it a rest, ❞ he says sternly.
He’s glad she can’t see the blush blooming over his face.