S.M. ✦ Gin & Juice

II.

"Don't call 911!" Shawn shouted between fresh waves of dry heaves, "I could....lose....my scholarship." He was gasping, both from the force of his nausea and from the sheer panic that was evident on his face.

"Okay, okay," you placated, holding a warm, damp towel to his forehead, "let's just make sure you get all of the excess alcohol out of your system."

The room smelled foul. You were barely staving off your own nausea. It was sweltering, sweat pouring down your face, but he was violently shivering. You were running out of ideas on how to soothe him, and were terrified to suggest the hospital again. Instead, you ran the water in the bath to try and flush out some of the sickly sweet smell of gin mixed with stomach acid.

Deciding that maybe some fresh air might help, you rose to your feet and started toward the window. He reached out and caught your ankle in a strong grip, stronger than you thought he was capable of in his current state. "Don't leave me here," he pleaded, your anxiety reflected in his eyes, "I don't want to be alone."

"I'm just going to open a window," you whispered in the most soothing tone possible, "I promise I won't leave you."

He leaned his back against the side of the tub, his nausea seeming to have subsided for now. You opened the small window above the medicine cabinet and let in the crisp October air. Immediately, the room felt less oppressive. The cool night air helped to clear your head and assess the situation more clearly, which as much as you ran it through your head, didn't make any sense.

You slid down the wall opposite from him and ran through the facts. You were in a bathroom with the starting quarterback of your university's football team. He had passed out alone on the floor of this bathroom after consuming what appeared to be an entire bottle of gin. You still hadn't taken a comfortable breath since before entering the bathroom, since before entering this house. The anxiety was ramping back up, forcing you to put your head between your knees and take some focused breaths.

"Uh, are you okay?" he slurred at you. You held one finger up, needing just one more second before collecting yourself and looking at him again. Lifting your head, you met each other with quizzical expressions.

His head was tilted sideways, like keeping it upright was a struggle. In fact, his whole massive frame was leaning slightly, looking more and more like he might collapse. You quickly slid across the small space to sit next to him, doing as much as you could to prop up his body. In all honesty, he was mostly just leaning his body weight onto you. Your body flamed at the contact and he briefly trembled against you.

"Are you still cold?" you asked him, seriously concerned that the vomiting might start back up again.

"Uhm...no...just a chill from the window," he looked away, not meeting your eyes, "you didn't answer my question. Are you okay?"

"I just walked in on you passed out on the floor next to an empty bottle of liquor. I thought you might be dead," you responded, a hint of incredulity in your voice, "I guess since you're not, I'm fine, all things considered."

His chest rumbled with a choked laugh. "Ahem, I'm sorry about that," he dipped his head, still unable to meet your eyes, "I got a little carried away." He paused, finally turning his head to look at you, "my name is Shawn, by the way."

"I know. My roommate told me," you said, "after you spilled your beer on me." At that, he looked appropriately chagrined, scrubbing his neck, "sorry about that too. Damn, I'm just a royal fuck up tonight."

"I mean, technically I ran into you," you said, internally cringing at the memory, at the way you went radio silence looking into his eyes. "The force of it just startled me," you lied; "you're kind of big, you know?" He nodded, smirking at the memory of your stunned face, remembering your quick blush when he stupidly tried to towel off your shirt.