Luke: Luke would never have meant to get drunk. He'd blame it on you and your dares and the fact that you didn't think he could down three shots in under twenty seconds. Being best friends meant challenging each other to dumb, and at times dangerous, things that neither of you thought either of you could accomplish. So when the haze of the alcohol would finally begin to take effect, the common sense that typically ruled his everyday actions would begin to crumble. His eyes would land on you making jokes with the other boys across the room where you had found a free booth. HisHisHis. You were his. You were his best friend. You were his rock. You were his in every sense of the word. His clumsy and large feet would begin to find their way to your own and he'd stumble into the red-leather booth, his head landing on your shoulder and his breath falling onto your skin. You'd suck in a harsh breath as a chill flew down your spine and nerves. By the time you focused back on the boys that were sitting across from you, they'd be gone and you and drunken Luke would be left to yourselves. His lips would be hovering right over your skin, the neurons that typically told him what a bad idea being this close to you not working as fast as before. Being this close to you was now the only thought in his inebriated mind. And when that song the two of you had sung together since you were little kids began to play, Luke wouldn't be able to help himself. His lips would find your own (the ones he dreamt about for years) in the dimly lit booth and he'd wonder if someone had slipped him some acid or something because this had to be a trip. It couldn't be real. There could be no reality where he would be kissing you. It was only a dream he had like those kinds of dreams that you know are never going to happen. Ever. But when he'd pull back and see the larger than life smile on your face and the way the shit lighting hit your face just right, he'd know for sure it was no dream. This was real life. You were real life.
Calum: When alcohol flowed through his veins, he'd nearly become a pest you couldn't rid yourself of. His hands would constantly be on your waist and hips and any exposed skin he could find. At first, you'd think it was–almost–cute. He was just being a doting boyfriend, paying attention to you, keeping you safe. But then you'd see the looks he gave the other men that were anywhere near you; his eyes would flash and he'd nearly grit his teeth in almost a territorial kind of way. You'd roll your eyes, the alcohol inhibiting your usual annoyance at these kind of things but then he would whirl you around to face him. His lids would be hooded and he'd lick his lips hungrily. You were all he wanted tonight. Just you and him and nothing else even in his drunken state that made sense to him. Drunk Calum would be the person that pressed sloppy and wet kisses all over you once he found the couch in the back of the lounge the club had. He'd be the person that would rush you home because he just needed you. It'd be such a primal need that he wouldn't be able to just forget about it and let you have your fun on your late night out. He wouldn't able to just ignore the burning in the pit of his stomach and the itching in his hands for your skin. But once you were in the safety of the four walls that you called your home (though at this point you debated between these four walls or the man ghosting his lips along your skin being your home) he'd let everything loose on you. Your back would be pushed against the door of the apartment, your head making a sickening thud! as his lips were brought to the hollow of your collarbone, the one place he knew drove you crazy. Drunk Calum would make sure you were a writhing mess beneath his broad and certainly capable exterior before letting the night move on further. Drunk Calum would be relentless.
Michael: Drunk Michael would be cosy. He'd be someone that you wouldn't mind spending lazy Friday nights with. Laughter would continuously fall out of his pink lips and he'd keep you close to him on the couch. And when you'd try to slide out of his lanky arms, murmuring something about how you'd be right back, Michael would whine and whine and whine and refuse to let you out of his embrace. How could he know you were actually going to come back? With Michael, there would be no personal space. He'd be attached to your hip the remainder of the night, the alcohol getting the worst of the separation anxiety he had grown over the past few months spent without you by his side. Halfway through the movie that he'd have insisted you put in the DVD player, he'd be stretched across your lap. His face would be buried in your material covering your stomach and his arms would wind their way around your waist, making sure you don't leave throughout his slumber. Drunk Michael would be nearly too clingy, too affectionate, too playful and eventually too sleepy. But staring down at the peaceful face nearly burrowing itself into your stomach, you wouldn't be able to complain. When too much alcohol swam in his veins, Michael would be vulnerable. He'd let his guard down and drunken confessions of his love and adoration for you would pour out of his vodka and beer stained lips. His arms would be just a little too tight and his hands would press into you just a little too much. But staring at him like this, sleep hazing your mind and making everything just a little bit slower, too much was just enough.
Ashton: Ashton wouldn't get drunk often, citing his workouts at five in the morning as a primary reason to not get a raging hangover, but when he did there would always be a reason for it. To be honest, most of the time it would be because he was mad. Something would have irritated and provoked him past all rationale. So he'd find himself in some bar that now he didn't remember the name of, drinking a shitload of alcohol that he'd know he'll regret come the morning, and trying to forget about whatever happened that made him see redredred. Soon his vision tinted with rouge would die out and return back to their now drunken colors. The glass's contents would swirl in front of him and he'd debate on what he was to do next: return to you or stay and think about the red again. He'd hate when things like this happened, when things would come between the two of you. He'd hate when he saw red. Drunk Ashton would be irrational and loud and domineering. For the most part, you'd never see drunk Ashton. You'd see the Ashton that came home to you; the one with hooded lids and lips drenched with alcohol; the one with apologies on his lips and heartbreak in his eyes. That would be the Ashton you saw. And when he'd stumble through the door, slurred apologies flying out of his mouth before he'd be able to stop them, you'd open your arms as a safe haven for him. All the anger from before would seep out of him and he wouldn't see red anymore. Drunk Ashton would want you with every fibre of his being in the most wholesome way. He'd want you in his arms for the rest of whatever time you'd have together. He'd be torn and tattered and misshapen. He'd be broken. But throughout the night, with your arms around him, you'd piece him together jagged edge by jagged edge and once morning broke, he'd be him again. He'd be Ashton and you'd be you and there'd be no red. There'd only be love, enough for the both of you.
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(A/N)
ARRRRRGGGHHH!!! i'm soooooo sorry for such a late update! (please forgive me!!) the school term is almost over and that means all my assignments are due :( so I have been really busy trying to get those completed.I'm am so sorry next update is coming up very soon!!!
xx Lia
