put your lips close to mine | n.s

at hand

It's 3:41 am, or at least that's what Niall thinks his phone screen says, can't be sure with the screen going fuzzy around the edges. He's not drunk. Drunk is when you can't feel your toes and all that you can smell is your ma's horrid cooking when she's trying to make you feel better. Drunk is not being able to feel this big rock on your chest that you're trying in vain to throw off. Drunk is not being aware of that small brush of Harry's lips against yours when they met for no more than even a second. Would that be a millisecond? A microsecond? Niall's not sure.

Drunk is not being able to see green eyes widening. His body jerking away from you and face twisting into something akin with repulsion, shuddering arms to match. It's not being able to see him telling Paddy to 'please take him to his room, he's out of his fuckin' mind. The cunt' on loop. Maybe it is, and Niall's never known because he was never drunk quite like this.