Vice [h.s]

III

"So are you going to tell me why you're actually here or are you just here to get me drunk?" I ask.

He is sitting on a stool at the bar in my kitchen, fumbling with the lid to the handle. His rings crash against the glass, making an annoying ringing sound. The rings read "H" and "S" - I'm assuming those are his initials - along with a few other rings. How conceited is this dude?

"Is that how you see me T?" He asks, glancing up from the bottle to meet my eyes. His eyes have a playful darkness to them-

Wait, what the fuck.

"What did you just call me?" I ask, pressing my palms to the edge of the bar counter, leaning forward slightly with my eyes squinted. I know he didn't just give me a pet name.

"I said Tatum," he bounces back. A stray strand of brown hair lays flat on his forehead. He looks winded, like he had been sweating. I notice a light purplish color making its appearance on his right knuckles. I don't even want to know. He pulls his hand away in a swift movement, taking it out of my sight as he smooths down his pants. I look up and meet his gaze, quickly looking away and back on the bottle. I shift my body weight from one leg to the other uneasily.

"Whatever, open the bottle," I respond, while turning around and reaching up to grab two shot glasses from the overhead cabinet. I notice the closest to me has Derek's name on it. It was a housewarming gift given to us by a friend when we moved into this apartment. The one with my name on it broke a while ago during a dinner party with our friends. We used to host those all the time.

"Do you not have any shot glasses?" Harry's voice distracts me. I realize I have been looking into the cabinet for a moment now. I blink the tears welling up in my eyes away and am lucky that my back was facing him. I reach behind Derek's shot glass and grab two, nameless ones.

"Yeah, here sorry." I respond bluntly, setting them down in front of him. He grabs one of them and fills it up to the brim and it is in that moment that I realize how small and fragile the glass looks between his fingers. The cross tattoo prevalent on his hand is faded with years of wear. He begins to fill up the other one as well.

"Is that too much?" He asks, filling up mine halfway, with that stupid smirk on his face.

"Oh I thought you were pouring yours, I thought that one was mine," I say, pointing at the full one, smiling sarcastically. I grab the shot glass and down it, feeling the burning sensation travel down my throat and the warmth in my chest. I set it down on the counter, meeting his eyes once again. He looks irritated.

"Nope. That was mine, thanks," he mumbles, filling the other shot glass up to the rim.

"You know, if you came over to insult me in my own home, whiskey was not the best alcohol to give me," I say, walking over to the fridge, "do you need a chaser?" I ask.

He rolls his eyes with a slight chuckle, correcting himself immediately by covering it up as he clears his throat. I grab the two liter of Coca-Cola that I keep in my fridge, for nights like these specifically, and set it down on the counter. He throws his head back as he takes the shot and I watch as he does so effortlessly, slamming the glass back on the counter and looking at me dead in the eyes.

"I have an idea," he speaks, filling up the shot glasses again, this time filling both to the brim. As he should. I nod, waiting for him to continue, leaning against the counter once again.

"I'll ask you a question and if you don't answer, that's a shot, same goes with me."

I stare at him.

"So, 20 questions? Really?" I laugh slightly. Didn't realize we were thirteen.

"No, just getting to know each other," he defends himself, eyebrows furrowed.