"I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy."
-Sylvia Plath
You can taste the alcohol heavy on his tongue when he crashes his lips against yours. You don't mind that he has to be drunk to love you, as long as he's in your arms.
.
"Got royally pissed last night," Piers says, and you notice that he refuses to meet your gaze as he tells your friends. "Don't remember a damn thing."
You laugh along with the others, commenting how it's no surprise. But your chest aches because you know he's lying. He remembers, but he is too ashamed to tell them, too afraid of what it might mean if they knew.
.
"God, Dudley," he groans after his fifth drink, and he slumps against you, his lips tickling your neck.
You smile and play along, letting him fall into your arms. "Few too many?"
He grins a lopsided grin before kissing your neck.
.
"She's cute, yeah?" Piers says as a girl in a too short skirt passes you by.
"Didn't really notice," you mumble, refusing to follow his gaze.
Piers doesn't seem to hear you. He's already gone, following her out with a hopeful smile, leaving you alone.
.
He kisses you fiercely, like you are all that matters. His arms wrap around you, like he's desperate to hold on to you and keep you there.
For once, you just sit there, unmoving. Your hands just rest on his hips, your heart no longer in it.
.
"Maybe I could come over tonight," he says. "I stole my dad's brandy. So, we could-"
"I'm busy tonight," you lie without looking up at him.
You don't think that you can handle the betrayal that is undoubtedly in his eyes. There will be questions there, questions that you don't know how to answer.
"Tomorrow, then?"
"My aunt is visiting. It's not a good time."
.
You miss the drunken snogs, the clumsy tangle of limbs. You miss him, and it hurts without him.
But it hurts worse with him, never being good enough to love sober.