𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄, pedri gonzález

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙭, olive

❝ but you weren't thinking, and i was just drinking. ❞
⇄ ◃◃   ⅠⅠ   ▹▹ ↻

I have a love/hate relationship with getting drunk. I love it in the moment, the alcohol increasing my body's production of dopamine and serotonin, the two 'happy hormones' of our body.

However, I have to wake up the next day feeling like crap. I don't even want to open my eyes right now. I can already feel the headache coming.

If I keep my eyes closed, I won't have to wake up and therefore, will not have to face the consequences of my drunkenness.

Then keeping my eyes closed it is.

I turn to arrange my sleeping position but somehow I cannot bring myself to move. I can't move. What the hell?

I'm gonna have to open my eyes aren't I? Opening them, the bright light of the sun hits me and I close them back immediately.

This is too much shit to deal with at this early an hour. I slowly open them up again, scratching them unconsciously.

Everything is kind of a blur for a few seconds. As the room clears up, I realize, this isn't my room. Olive Larsen, what have you done?

I look down and see the reason I wasn't able to move.  There's a hand wrapped around me. A strong, muscled up hand, holding my waist.

This man must be bad in bed if I do not remember a single thing. Last thing I remember is sitting on Pedri and proving myself as smart as usual to his frie — wait a second, why was I sitting on Pedri? Man, sometimes I do not get how my brain works.

I want to turn and see who it is. Because if it's one of the barca players, I am so fucked. Whoever it is I'm fucked actually. Pedri and I have an agreement, I do not break agreements.

The hand pulls me closer, tightening it's grip over me. The guy might not be the best in bed apparently, but his muscles are wow. Why can't I remember him then?

I don't even remember going home with someone. I thought the trio and I just went back home after Isabel got shit-faced drunk.

"Yel3an selefik Larsen. (Damn you, Larsen.)" I mumble to myself, trying my best to think back to last night's events. Come on! This shouldn't be this hard! I have a photographic memory, damn it!

I don't even dare to move. Trying to recall last nights events.

1. Rinsed off because Pedri quote unquote saw a cat and almost let us die but luckily, I just got mascara in my eye.

2. Isabel and I danced, a lot.

3. Isabel couldn't handle her liquor as usual and tried to undress when I left her alone for a second.

4. I apparently sat on Pedri's lap and, oh my god, I almost forgot that, I turned him on and then told him to control it. Wow, drunk me really can be something else.

But number five remains a question to me. Did I drink more? Did I go back to the dance floor? Did Pablo let Isa come back and dance?

Suddenly, the hand lets go of me and the feel of the body on my back fades away as he turns and his back now faces me. Finally, I can move.

I don't really want to move though, that bed is comfortable. I also already feel the weight of the busy day that is today. Maybe I can just stay in this stranger's bed and sleep for one or two maybe three more hours.

"La2 ma fike heze tizik men hon. (No you can't, move your ass from here.)" The urge to speak to myself out loud is uncontrollable sometimes.

"Just shut up, Liv and go back to sleep." What the- woah! There's no way a stranger just nicknamed me and told me to shut up.

I finally turn around and see my fake boyfriend asleep next to me. Okay great. That's just great. "Please don't tell me we slept together again." I groan, letting my head fall back onto the pillow.

If we did sleep together again, then his game must've gone down. Not remembering having sex with someone always means they were horrible, especially with me.

"No we didn't. You didn't let me sleep all night so please shut up." He mumbles against his pillow, putting it over his head, shutting me out.

He's not getting away that easily, I want details. I sit up and turn to look at him. Fuck, even his back is full of muscles.

If we didn't sleep together, why are we in the same bed? Why am I wearing his shirt and why is he shirtless? He can sleep later.

"Why am I in your bed then?" I ask. He's not answering though, his sleepiness overtaking him. "Pedri?" I repeat, shaking him.

"What?" He groans, zero tolerance for me at this hour. Understandable. I'm a pain in the ass and his clock says it's eight in the morning.

"Why are we in your bed? Why are you naked and why am I wearing your shirt?" I ask, prolonging my question.

"You think my bed is more comfortable, I am not naked just shirtless and I wasn't going to let you sleep naked. Can you please use that photo... whatever memory of yours and remember because I need my beauty sleep." He mumbles it all so fast as he pushes himself off the cushion for a second, holding himself in a kind of push up way to speak and then drops back onto the mattress.

"Your bed is more-?" I start up again, ready to annoy him some more but then it hits me. "Oh God." I mumble as it all comes back rushing to me.