He knew he was being irrational.
He knew it in the deep, innermost part of his mind, and yet that couldn't, wouldn't clear the illogical ruminations from bouncing around his mind. They were so fierce, he thought, he could almost hear them slamming into the sides of mind and rebounding, their sounds turning into screeching disturbances as they bumped into each other and scattered.
Freddie Benson set the bottle of whiskey on the counter, deciding he had tried just a little too much for the night. Besides, if he sipped anymore, surely his mother would notice the liquid missing from her overly prized liquid cabinet.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy, and applied pressure until he saw only black. The silence of the loft settled around him, only making the thoughts inside his head seem louder, and he thought he might be going crazy.
There was simply no other explanation for it. He was going crazy.
He didn't, however, plan to sit idly by while his mind raced to jumble his thoughts.
He fetched his keys and wallet and stumbled across the hall to Carly's apartment.
He paused in front of the door.
What if she is in there?
Of course she's there.
The dance is in less than an hour. Carly is most likely dressing her like her personal Barbie doll, primping her hair and...
Her hair.
It's probably straightened by now.
Carly always straightens it on special occasions, even though Freddie always thought her Sam's thick, unruly curls were more preferable.
Her curls.
He can remember running his hands through them. If he closes his eyes he can almost remember the way her hair smells-like faint lavender and vanilla intermixed. He always wondered if this was natural or if it was a scent she tried hard to obtain.
The smell suddenly fills the air and catches in his throat and he coughs, trying to clear himself of her essence.
It's no use, though.
"Sam..." he whimpers. His eyes are still closed and he's wobbling on his feet now, the effects of the alcohol now taking hold.
"What, loser?"
The voice is loud and clear, the scent intoxicating and undeniable. There is no mistaking her presence.
Freddie opens his faze and finds himself face to face with her, her light blue eyes narrow and lacking their usual glint of mischief.
Freddie takes her in, all of her, and his brain begins to fuzz again. He fights back the urge to cover his eyes as his vision begins to blur and the hallway starts to spin and he reaches out to touch her, thinking that if he doesn't, she'll disappear like the ground beneath him.
It doesn't take long for their hands to find eachother.
The familiar touch of her warm fingers brushing his fills him with an indescribable elation. His head finds the crook of her neck and he's breathing in her scent.
"How much have you been drinking, you dork?"
But her hands come to rest on his head and all he can think is that his mind has finally quieted.
