She's not that good of a kisser, but it doesn't matter. She's his tonight. At least until the liver kicks in and the alcohol fades. He doesn't know her anyway, so he won't have to face it in the morning. They're not even touching, except a few nerve endings scattered in the tip of their tongues, their teeth, and their lips. Specs rubs a hole in the couch religiously, his knees pulled up under his chin.
It's hard to kiss from so far away. It makes his neck hurt.
He's probably not that good of a kisser either, when he thinks about it. He's completely wasted and he just had a tooth pulled—half of his mouth is still numb. But it doesn't matter—she's just as drunk, just as careless (or maybe just trying to be). She probably isn't on Novocain at the moment, but her kisses limp anyway. She's nowhere near on par with a certain boy... that Specs will not let himself think about.
She's not wearing a shirt. When did that happen?
Something's flickering in the corner of his vision (he didn't even realise he had his eyes open). It might be the flash of a camera, or a disco ball (although he didn't see one when he came in), or a flashlight. It could be someone's expensive-ass jewelry flashing in the light. He twists the ring he's wearing on his left thumb. If he has to touch her tits, he'll probably throw up. He'll probably throw up anyway, eventually. Especially if he drinks more.
He can hear the-boy-he-won't-let-himself-think-about moan. He digs his toes into the couch.
Dutchy kind of brings attention to himself when he moans. (Oh, shit, there was that name—Specs sticks his tongue farther down the anonymous girl's throat, like he's trying to hide from his ex-boyfriend.) He looks and sounds like a fucking rock star when he gets it on... Specs grabs the girl's tits in rebellion against the thought. For the first time since they started kissing, his eyes clench shut. He's trying his hardest to pretend this isn't happening.
Oh, God. His hands are on her boobs.
Next thing Specs knows he's worshipping the porcelain goddess with a hell of a hangover—someone's rubbing his back, and feeble sunlight is shining through a little window on the wall. He's pretty sure this isn't the same house he got drunk at. He should really move his head a little so he can see whoever's sitting there soothing him. It doesn't feel like Dutchy (or a girl, thank God). His forehead is pretty much glued to the back of the toilet seat, though, so he settles for reaching out and grabbing the hand of whomever sat behind him.
"Hey, you feeling any better yet?"
It's Skittery, he can tell. (In answer to the question, Specs throws up again.) Skittery and Specs used to be pretty close friends, but they haven't spoken since Dutchy and Specs broke up. Specs "changed," according to Skittery. But this isn't something Specs cares about while his (ex?)friend gives him a back rub, even though he's heaving the content of his stomach into the shrine of the hangover. All he really cares about is... well, honestly, getting some Advil into his system. And Skittery's on it. Specs swears he'll never drink again, and Skittery laughs in his face.
"Once you've had your first taste, Specs, you're just another name on the list of the Wasted."