Drunken Miracles

Quite Frankly, The End.

Nate's POV

Nate was sure he was already in a bad mood before he even woke up. Splitting headache, mouth as dry as a desert, his stomach rolling so badly he saw stars for a moment, before quickly turning to the side and throwing up all over his floor.

Nate spat and coughed once he'd finished throwing up last nights drinking, then groaned when he realised he'd have to clean it all out of his carpet too. Looking down with one eye open, he frowned when he realised he'd managed to spew in his waste paper basket.

That was weird. He didn't remember getting that out last night.

Mind you, his mind was pretty foggy right then. Not a hell of a lot was making sense.

With another groan, Nate threw back the comforter and his frown deepened when he saw he was lying in just his boxers.

“When the fuck did I get undressed?” He half murmured, voice dry and cracked. Nate glanced at his night stand and with some surprise, saw a full glass of water and aspirin next to it. What the...

Then he realised his chest ached.

Not like someone had punched him, or hit him, and not like a bruise, but inside, his chest hurt slightly, like something was missing. It puzzled him to no end, and as he shakily stood and checked his weight on his wobbly legs, a flashback hit him hard.

She was in my room. My room. What the fuck was going on? Last time I checked, she wanted nothing to do with me. So why was she looking at me like that? God I'm drunk. Like, drunk drunk.

“Your bed's on the other side of the room.” My bed? What was she talking...oh, right. My soccer ball.

“Oh. Right. Huh. Guess I misjuggled.” Misjuggled, I think that's the word I was after, why had I drunk so much?

“You mean misjudged?”

“That's a big word.”

She laughed. I made her laugh again. Fuck, I loved her laugh, it was beautiful.

Nate stumbled back, even more confused then before. Okay, so Taylor had been in his room because he'd broken his window accidently when he threw his soccer ball in anger. Admittedly, he'd only thrown it because he'd seen her all night in his house, and not once could he find the words to say to her, because he wanted to confess in a perfect way, the only way she deserved.

Fucking hell, this is what it feels like the wear skirts and make cookies.

Nate shook his head of jumbled thoughts and walked slowly towards his bathroom, stripping out of his boxers and getting into the shower, not bothering to wait until it heated up. He was hoping the cold water would shock the memories back from last night, so he could make more sense of the confusing situation.

As he turned so the water would hit his bare shoulders, another one raced through his mind.

“My hero.” I felt my face lit up in a grin, and Taylor rolled her eyes at me. She pushed me upright gently, before I half shouted, “And there's no blood in my alcohol system! I'm perfectly sober.” I tried a nod, but the room spun and I fell back onto my mattress with an omph.

Wait, now Taylor was lying on me. How did that happen? Oh right, I'd had hold of her wrist. Silly Nate, silly boy. I stared up at her, feeling the love I felt for her rise to the surface. Her face changed from surprised to a little pain, then slight wonder, and suddenly she gasped, trying to escape.

I almost panicked at the thought of her leaving, so I grabbed her around the waist and held her down gently. “Stay. Please.”

Nate's eyes shot open, and he quickly washed the shampoo and soap off his body before turning off the now hot shower and stepping out, drying himself with a towel. He was panicking now because he was terrified that he may have tried to kiss her or something, and that would have just made the whole situation worse.