You really didn't mean to get this drunk. It honestly wasn't part of your plan.
When Heather called you merely three hours ago and sobbed and cried something about Taylor, the first thing you did was suggest that you'd go out and have fun. Just forget the bad things. That's what you do best, after all.
(You love to drink and forget the hard things.)
She accepted because you know that she knows that you will do everything you can to make her feel better.
But now you're both a little bit too drunk and you have to be on set early tomorrow.
It doesn't really matter though, because you can see that Heather has forgotten about that thing, whatever it was, that made her so upset. She has lost herself in the music, she's dancing like she was born to do it.
(She was.)
You try your best to dance like her but you know you won't. Ever. No one can move like Heather. But still, with your bodies pressed so close together and her hands on your hips, you're pretty sure you're almost equal as your bodies could pass as one. You're actually that close. And it feels fucking amazing.
You freeze for half a second when her lips brush softly against your neck. How the hell did her mouth get there?
You quickly adjust to the feeling though. It's way too familiar.
Heather arches into you so that you're even closer together than before. Was that possible?
(The room is spinning and you're not sure if it's because you're drunk or if it's because of what Heather is doing. She's always had a tendency to make you feel dizzy.)
Somehow you end up in your apartment, pressed against a wall with her tongue tracing the valley between your breasts and your dress tugged down around your hips. You're panting and threading your fingers through her blonde locks, trying to guide her further down. She understands your request and drags the dress down along with your underwear.
"H-Heather," your hear yourself moan. "I need…"
She doesn't answer you with words; instead she gently slides her hands up and down your thighs. She goes further and further up until her right hand is between your legs and you feel one of her fingers slide between your folds. You bite down on your lower lip, trying not to moan embarrassingly loud, but you're not sure if you succeed or not. Everything is still spinning and you have no idea how long it's been since you got home. Time isn't important. The only thing that's important right now is her.
You have no idea about anything right now but it's okay. It feels okay because – oh, yes, Heather's tongue feels amazing and she is amazing. She's so good at this. Maybe because practicing makes perfect and… and… you used to do this a lot. Used to. Before boyfriends and fans and responsibilities.
(Why do you have tears in your eyes?)
Fuck, don't cry, don't cry.
(You know why the tears are there. It's because you always cry when you think of what used to be.)
Suddenly you're shaking and it's really hard to stand up straight. Are you shaking because of the sobs that you can't hold in anymore or is it because you're so, so close to coming?
You can't tell. It's probably both.
When you come, it's hard and it's everything and it's too much. It's too much because you know she can feel all of you and all of your emotions and your feelings towards her.
(You never really got over her and she knows that.)
When you slide down the wall, you hide your face in your hands because you can't stop crying. She knows you're crying though, because how could she not? You're loud and you're shaking and you're a mess.
A couple of minutes pass until you look up. You're met with the sight of her ocean blue eyes, darker than usual but full of emotion. She's crying too.
(How did you end up here?)
"I'm so sorry," she says. And you're not really sure if she's apologizing for what just happened between the two of you or if she's apologizing for everything. Everything that went wrong.
You want to say that you're sorry too but the words are stuck in your throat. Instead you just look at her.
Fuck, you were supposed to make her feel better. She was sad. Now everything is a hundred times worse. This was not supposed to happen. You know that, but you can't for your life remember why it shouldn't happen because it always feels so right.
(You love her, you love her, you love her.)
You take her hand and drag her towards you. You just need her close. She rests her head against your shoulder. It feels nice.
You know that you will both start getting uncomfortable soon, and she will stand up and leave, probably without saying goodbye. You know that you won't say anything either and you won't stop her when she leaves.
You know, you know, you know.
(You love her.)
"Hold me," you whisper. So she does.
For now, that's all that matters.