Misfits | m. clifford

2; "I bet I can take more shots than you."

We talked and talked and talked, Michael and I. We talked for so long, I felt sure that at any moment Sarah would pull me aside and tell me it was time to go, but she didn't, and we kept talking.

"Thalia," Michael said with a giggle. A giggle. "I bet I can take more shots than you,"

I smirked. "Challenge excepted," I replied, without hesitation.

We found a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses, and set to pouring out the strong liquor into the tiny cups. As the bottle of vodka diminished, our giggles increased, and we were both on our eighth shots when Michael admitted defeat.

"You have amazing tolerance," he said with a sigh, as if he couldn't believe he had actually been beaten.

"I could've told you that," I answered, stretching my legs out in front of me and crossing them at the ankles. We were seated on the floor in a vacant corner of the living room, our hips touching.

"I feel dizzy," Michael claimed loudly, clutching my bicep for support. The effect of the alcohol was evident.

I laughed, thinking that I was not nearly as drunk as Michael, only a little buzzed, when in hindsight: I was just as drunk as him, possibly even a little bit more. "Maybe you should lay down," I suggested, and I scrunched up my nose at my slightly slurred words.

Michael nodded, and stretched his body out, resting his head in my lap. He stared up at me, his eyebrows furrowed as if he was in deep concentration.

While he laid there with his head on my thighs, I couldn't help but to trace his face with my fingertips. I touched his cheekbones and his forehead and his jawline and the the bridge of his nose and even his chapped lips, and he closed his eyes.

I hummed quietly, and took off his hat so I could play with his hair, which was long and soft and messy and nice.

We sat like that for what seemed like ages, and I had just gone back to tracing the features of his face when I suddenly remembered something.

"Michael, were you crying earlier?" I asked, my drunken mind having no grasp of politeness, or any kind of filter.

His eyes opened, and he paused, as if trying to remember.

"Oh, oh yeah. I was," he did not seem embarrassed at all to admit.

"How come?" I asked, rubbing his cheekbone with my thumb.

"My girlfriend broke up with me just before I came here. Which was why I came in the first place. I was gonna find someone to hook up with to take my mind off things," he said, scrunching up his nose.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Pause. "But why are you here with me, if you came to have sex? You should go dance or something." I said, feeling insecure all of a sudden. I had finally actually found someone whose presence was not completely unbearable at one of the parties Sarah was always taking me to, but it seemed like, to my under-the-influence mind, that he didn't even want to be with me.

"No, no, I think this is helping more, actually. I don't really wanna have a one night stand anyway, not tonight at least."

"Oh," I said quietly.

He smiled at me. "You're really pretty, you know," he commented.

I dismissed it as his drunk mind talking. "Sure, Michael."

"No, really! You have really pretty eyes," he stared into my dark brown eyes, that I had never really liked.

"And your hair looks really good like that."

It was only in a messy French braid down my back.

"Also, your lips are really. . . Really pretty."

I laughed, rolling my eyes. I'd never thought that something as insignificant as your lips could be described as pretty.

"I just think. . . I just think that you're really beautiful," he said, staring at me.

I blushed under his gaze, and looked away.

"That's really nice of you to say," I mumbled, and he chuckled.

"Are you embarrassed?" He asked, and he suddenly sat up, turning to face me.

"A little," I said. Except it was less embarrassment and more just plain shyness.

"I was only stating facts," he replied, which caused me to blush more.

I shoved his shoulder jokingly. "Shut up."

"I think I like you a lot, Thalia,"

I smiled. "I like you too, Michael."

-

Holy cow what the hell did I just write i