to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

ix.

ix.

step six: if you can't put it in work
i don't know what you think
this fucking is
step seven: this one goes to eleven
if you cheat
you will die, die

high school sweethearts — melanie martinez

| "Such a good boy." |

MIKE.

It's half past six at night, when I hear the persistent banging on my door from not one, but several people it seems. My head pounds a nauseating rhythm, feeling the pain of my hangover take over, still. I've practically been asleep all day to get enough rest for work tomorrow. And, last night, I went all out for Halloween. I drank so much tequila that just the thought of the word tequila makes me want to gag and vomit. The guys have been blowing up my phone to join them for another party tonight before the start of a new week, but I can't be bothered.

I assume it's them at my door, annoyingly knocking to wake me up and drag me out of my apartment. It's no use, though. I don't plan on going out tonight. Instead, I'm staying home, partially because I might have pressing matters to tend to—it may have something to do with a previous hookup, who will make their return to my bedroom...

I throw a pillow over my head to silence the knocks in hopes they'd go away. I anticipate the buzzes of texts and calls from my phone. But I don't. So they must really want me to get out of bed.

I sigh, despising the obnoxious sounds that give me another headache. The pillow doesn't work to quiet them.

Groaning and cursing, I toss my pillow to the side. I welcome their incessant knocks. It makes me grind my teeth. I throw my covers off of me, and they drape across the foot of my bed. In a pair of gray sweats and no shirt, I lift off of my bed. They're going to regret waking me up. They know my temperament while I'm either hungover, sleep deprived, or worse, hungry... it's almost ballsy of them to want to piss me off to encourage me to party.

I stalk towards my front door and don't bother to check the peephole. Potentially seeing the guys, huddled in front of it, laughing like children, will be the last straw. Their knocks don't seem to be too heavy as I have expected, though. It's just loud, light, and rampant. Why're they so suddenly thoughtful with their heavy hands? These dumbasses must know I'm behind the door.

I grip the door handle and swing it open, calling them names and cursing at them. But I stop the second I discover who's responsible for waking me up. I cut my curses short, leaving my mouth awkwardly hanging open. I clamp it shut, when two pairs of mischievous brown eyes bore into mine. These two make me take a cautious step back, because the smell of their perfumes—appealing while sober and not hungover—has me nauseous. I have to force down a gag.

It's not Pauly, Matt, or Chris at my door.

Instead, Sol and her friend, who I call Snow White after coming across her in costume last night, are both standing in front me.

Well, this is a first—Sol knocking on my door.

And seeing these girls before me is worse than seeing the guys; I can't yell at them like I could at my friends for bothering me.

Tremors of nausea and nerves roils in my stomach, because what in the hell are they doing? Couldn't they tell several hundred knocks ago that I'm not in the mood for whatever reason they're here?