catfish and the bottlemen imagines for rainy days + mondays

Sidewinder // Bondy

"Youre a fuckin nightmare sometimes you know," Bondy was drunk, real drunk, the kind of drunk that slurs his words and wears his emotions stained red on his cheeks.

"Yeah," you smirked rolling your eyes at him, "I'm the fuckin nightmare," you shrugged him off, turned away from him and back to the bar.

"Oh for fuck..." he started, about to catch your elbow and turn ypu back around, about to say something like "don't be like this," until he caught someone elses eyes from across the room and stopped himself. He stopped the simmering pout and any pity for you was replaced with glowering pity for himself and frustration with her.

His girlfriend grinning at him from across the room.

You had come to the bar alone, spent all afternoon drinking with a string of men who had come in for one or two, you'd moved from table to table, lap to lap and when Bondy and Phoebe had walked in unsuspectingly he'd watched you standing too close to a lad you'd been watching the football with, taking a sip from his drink with your straw.

Be it concern or jealousy you didn't care for the reasons he'd had for cutting in on your night. You only cared that he'd scared your distraction away with a few choice words as he'd pulled up a seat beside you to try and talk you into going home.

As if he wasn't the reason you'd wound up day drinking away your broken heart in the first place. As if he wasn't the reason you looked desperately for confort in strangers, any man who would buy you a pint.

You shrugged him off, turned your cold shoulder to him. He groaned, ran a hand through his hair.

"I can't stand you when you get like this," he said letting you go, though you hadn't been caught.

"Oh right yeah, you can't stand me now... That she's here," you lowered your voice and narrowed your eyes at him, the venom on your tongue making him feel far more wounded than he would let onto you in the moment.

For a moment he looked like he was going to give up, just going to storm off wordlessly, back to his girlfriend who youd never expected to meet. Probably wrap her up in his arms and make a show of snogging her in the hopes it would hurt you, but watching him get off with her hurt you so much less than having his arms around you and knowing you couldn't remain wrapped up with him forever.

For a moment it looked like he was going to choose her, shrug you off like you were just some girl he knew from school. Just some lass he'd met at a gig once. Some kid who worked with his brother.

But he didn't. He narrowed his eyes at you, lowered his voice and leant in a little too close for comfort.

"You're such a bitch y/n" he sneered at you before finally standing, his pint glass hitting the bar with a little too much force. The echo made you jump though to everyone else it hardly made a sound above the noise of the music and the pushing midnight crowd.

"Fuck you John," you slurred turning away, sulking with your elbows on the bar, into a luke warm, stale rum and coke. "Fuck you very very much," you mumbled into your glass, necking the last of your drink before slamming it down too, picking your bag up off the floor and slinging it over your shoulder, trying to hold your head high as you shot for the exit.

You tried to walk the space between your barstool and the smoking area as if you were Naomi Campbell, but you knew, even then when the alcohol might have allowed you the illusion, that really you were Lindsey Lohan mid breakdown, stumbling on your own shoes, wobbling with tears in your eyes, failing to hide the distraught you felt from your faded pale cheeks.

You were a mess, but so was he, and perhaps that was why it would always end up this way. Messy.

Arguments in bars in the middle of the night when you hadn't even arranged to meet and when his girlfriend was watching him, suspicious of him too.