Infinite [h.s.]

8. baby blue

🎵Last Call — Khalid

"What are you doing, man?" Mitch called out, shaking his head as he flicked on the light switch to the kitchen.

The sudden bright light was all too much for me, and I squinted, shielding my eyes as I looked down at the marble countertop. It didn't help that my vision was fucking swimming with all the liquor I'd consumed tonight.

"What does it l-look like?" I slurred, amused with his expression. He shouldn't be talking — I was taking care of his ass just three weeks ago when he was visiting me in New York.

Mitch surveyed the glass of whiskey in my hands, his eyes seeming to roll all the way to the back of his head. The action was comical, perhaps due to the alcohol, and I snickered to myself.

"You're so fucking drunk," he muttered, walking over to me. He crinkled his nose in disgust. "You fucking reek of it, dude."

"Are you here to i-insult me, Mitchell?" I chided, turning to look at him as he takes a seat beside me along the island. "How did you even get here, anyways?"

"Tom called me after he dropped you home," Mitch replied, his eyes tracking me as I take another sip of the whiskey. It didn't taste good; not after the Jack Daniels I'd been consuming as of late.

Not after a particular bartender named after the Sun and Moon, a celestial ode encompassed within her existence itself.

"He said you were fucking plastered," Mitch adds. I was growing annoyed under his intense stare; who was he to judge, anyways?

"Fuckin' Tom," I mutter. "Always looking out for me."

"Don't knock Tom," Mitch argued as I tilted the glass up to my lips, draining the last of my whiskey. "You're out until four in the freaking morning, getting papped with women! I bet you didn't even know, did you? You know things spread quickly, especially with you."

I sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose before I tilted my head up to look at the ceiling. I could feel the headache looming deep in my skull. "Mitchell," I complained, "I don't need a fucking lecture."

Mitch suddenly swiped the empty glass from my hands, as I protested, "Hey!"

"Why are you here, Harry?" He asked, ignoring me as he pushed the empty glass towards the other side of the island — out of my reach.

"I live here," I retorted, and this time, Mitch sighed. He rubbed his tired eyes, and the guilt surged through me.

Here my best friend was, at four in the morning, all because I wanted to be selfish. Woken up out of his sleep and all, and I was here giving him a hard time.

"In California," Mitch emphasized. "Why are you here in California when you've been hell-bent on staying up in New York?"

I groaned. The room seemed to be spinning, and I already knew the hangover would hit me tenfold when I woke up in the morning. As guilty as I was, Mitch's questions were fueling my inevitable headache and seriously blowing the high I'd been on with the liquor.

"I just needed the sun, and I missed my house here," I muttered as Mitch scoffed.

"Bullshit."