First thing in the morning and what do I see but Luhan draped over the couch. I can smell the alcohol and I haven't even stepped into the living room yet I'm still just hanging out in the hall peeking at him from around the corner (as if that wasn't a completely creepy thing to do).
I decided the best thing to do for him and the state he'll probably be in when he wakes up is to make coffee, and a breakfast he can eat on the way to work. I didn't see any luggage, or any papers. He was still wearing his jacket and his hair had some sort of sticker stuck in it - from what I could tell it was a pricing for a sandwich.
It took a little bit of banging around in the kitchen and humming very, very loudly but I eventually got him to stir. I suddenly kind of wished I hadn't as I saw his eyes open to tiny slits and my heart kind of stumbled from my chest to my stomach. I hardly know him, but despite the fact that the sticker said he was worth roughly $2.93, I can in the very least say that I am in love with his looks, and if I ever manage to get a godforsaken boyfriend I'd like him to look like Luhan.
His eyes were unbelievably sharp although rimmed with red. He sat up 1/3 of the way and immediately tumbled back down onto the couch, trying his hardest to look at me from over his nose as he laid there.
"Time?"
"An hour before work."
He groaned, rubbing his eyes.
"Right, work."
"If you need to puke out your hangover I'd appreciate it if you went to the bathroom."
His eyes widen and I don't really know why, what, did he expect me not to know with the way he looks?
"You can tell I was drinking?"
"Anyone who steps within ten feet of you can tell."
He coughs lightly.
"I was hoping to hide it from you."
A blush is covering his face up to his ears and I kind of feel sorry I ever said anything. Maybe I should've pretended like I didn't notice?
"You have a drinking problem?"
He stands up - slowly of course and not desolate of a few painful sounding groans.
"I..." He covers his mouth and I swear he's about to throw it all back up but slowly removes his hand. "I don't think so."
I hated the way that sounded.
"Don't think so? What? You can't tell if your liver is drowning in a sea of toxins?"
His nose scrunches up and I remind myself that he still has a sandwich sticker stuck in his hair and bloodshot eyes in a desperate attempt to focus away from the cute forehead and the innocent chubby cheeks, the - although still bloodshot - little sparkle when his eyes widen and the perfect milky skin. I don't think it's working.
"Well I.." He clears his throat lightly and I wonder exactly how deep into the pit of hell he feels right about now, or if maybe this was his normal morning routine. "I thought I had gotten out of it."
The last words were mumbled and I had suddenly become 90% more cautious than I was half a minute ago.
"So you did?" I let out a puff of exasperated air and glared at him with my most are-you-shitting-me-right-now sort of look. "You're telling me you were an alcoholic? You got the whole package? Shaking and screaming in the middle of the night going through withdrawals? You did that?"
"No." Thank God. "I never got that bad." Thank God.
"Well what stopped you?"
He frowned, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket, holding it between his fingers then looking up at me and quickly stuffing it back in.
