The One Where They're Both Drunk
AU.
You met her in the late summer, when the sun dipped behind the horizon and the bass of a rock concert thumped and reverberated behind you. You left the packed club for a smoke and saw her there, leaning on the brick walls, nursing a bottle if jack and a cigarette. You saw her, head leaned back to let out a breath, smoke rising from her red lips as her equally red hair trailed behind her, an you knew your life was over. Or maybe it'd just begun. You didn't know, but you knew you wanted to find out which it was.
That night was fire and explosions. You were both dizzy with excitement and drunkenness, and quite a lot of nicotine floating through your system. She was on fire, and when you told her as much, she threw back her head and laughed, saying it wasn't the first time she'd heard a joke about her hair. And that wasn't what you meant, but you were never good with words, and the alcohol made you fumble even more, so you kissed her instead. And you pulled her close and you groaned into her mouth because it was true, and it wasn't true. She wasn't just on fire. She was fire. She was warm and bright and crackling with intensity and you didn't even know her, but you knew that. So instead of breaking the kiss, you found a wall to push her up against in the crowded club just so the moment would keep going, so you didn't have to pull away.
She pulled away first, and you had a moment of panic that the real world would seep into the serenity that you'd created, but she quirked her lips and suggested that you leave the club...together. And you were powerless to refuse, not that you'd ever want to. You walked home, fumbling and laughing and leaning on each other for support, and stopping in dark alleys for a quick kiss up against the buildings every now an then.
When you reached your place and finally-finally-figured out how to work the key, it was the same: fumbling and laughing and kissing, but this time there was no outside world to encroach on you and a trail of clothes littered the floor. And when you fell together, it was like magic. It was far from perfect; you were both still drunk, after all, but perfection is rarely attainable, and you had to settle with 'mind blowing' or 'amazing'.
In the morning, she gets dressed and introduces herself for the first time as "Lily Evans, thanks for the fuck" and she's leaving and that's fine-it should be fine-but you just realized that you never wanted it to be a drunken fuck and a 'thanks, goodbye', and you're not quite sure how to handle that information.
But she's leaving and you can't just let her go because Sirius says that 'what ifs' are worse than bad experiences and you tend to agree. So, you prop yourself up on one arm, still half lying on the bed, and introduce yourself as "James Potter, fancy another?" With that cocky grin that you know is most likely turning her off because you know you sound like an ass. But she doesn't frown and call you out, she laughs, bending down to slip on her shoes and walking out with one last look over her shoulder. You lay in bed alone, the grin you wore fading, and try to ignore the swooping disappointment inside of you.
Later, when you finally pull yourself out of bed and into the shower, your grin returns when you see a phone number scrawled on your mirror in familiar red lipstick.
Author's note:
Yay for oneshots! I wrote this a few days ago because my friend was sad and stressed. This one (and actually a lot of my others) is for her. It's not great; I haven't really edited it, and I might still, but I wanted to get it up because I want to start posting some of my one shots here so there's that.
If you're wondering, I'm still writing Staggered Hearts, I just tend to procrastinate on things that I actually want to have done.
-Meg