At No Time || Bruno Mars

26

Trystan . . . You . . . Love . . . I

The murkiness that sabotaged all hangovers, intended or not, was plagued by a confession that swam about Trystan's head with no remorse or kindness. The four words taunted her as she battled weakly against her intoxicated slumber, having no time for them. She tried pushing them away, pretending she had not heard them, feigned ignorance to their meaning or at least renounced them as actually being true, but they still sat there as whispers in her mind, badgering at her ceasing inebriation until she accepted they'd been said and the occurrence had happened.

I love you, Trystan.

The intonations of car horns and even birds who'd refused to migrate south were amplified as Trystan was finally pulled from her drunken slumber. Her eyes opened leisurely, and a headache immediately pounded its way into her head from the studio lamp.

Where the hell am I? The ache in Trystan's neck would never have been afforded from her comfortable bed. Slowly feeling the space around her, her palms connected with soft leather. She was definitely not in her home—she owned nothing of that material. With more effort than she wished she had to use, her eyes fell down to her hands to see what she was touching. It was a black couch, familiar but damned for having her sleep on its torturing bodice.

Wait . . . am I still in the studio? Her voice gone in wake, she settled with her inquiring thoughts to assist her in figuring out what the hell was going on. Why hadn't she gone home last night? She'd never spent a night at the studio, and she couldn't compose a reason for why she would.

With great discomfort and a lot of determination, Trystan lifted herself from the couch, her headache teaming with the bile that rose into her chest. Her leg bumped against something too malleable to be apart of the furniture. Her eyes trailed before her, and that's when she saw the overturned bottle of whiskey on the floor, the two shots glasses, and her music partner slumped against the opposite side of the couch. In a flash, the night before came crashing back into her.

She and Peter, giving each other tongue baths that resulted in him confessing something Trystan wasn't too sure to take heed to.

No, no, no, no . . . Trystan shook her head slowly in disbelief. They couldn't have possibly done something that irresponsible. It wasn't in his morals and certainly wasn't in hers to do so. It couldn't have happened, Trystan would never have allowed it to. The shot glass that held a thin layer of her lip gloss on the rim and Peter's lips and neck smudged with something maroon challenged that idea, or, more accurately put, tossed it in the trash.

"Oh, my God," Trystan managed to croak and she was on her feet. Her head still swam with the remnants of alcohol that she could taste on her tongue as she staggered down the hallway, balancing herself against the walls with frames of famous artists that had graced the studio with their presence, and into the bathroom, where she vomited every ounce of alcohol that hadn't made home in her system into the toilet bowl.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! She cursed herself. She couldn't deny what happened anymore, all the evidence, including that of her waned memory, was there. She and Peter had gone and done something she'd sworn to herself she'd never do, no matter how massive her feelings were to grow. She heaved, horrified of the circumstances.

When she felt her body could offer no more to the porcelain throne, she languidly stood until she was looking squarely at herself in the mirror. Who had she become? Other than the looks of dishevelment, she appeared to be the same woman; her full lips and eyes she'd acquired from her mother and nose and left dimple she'd gotten from her father, but this woman she did not seem to know anymore. She was a stranger to herself. Who was she to get drunk to the point she would let a man have his tongue down her throat and groping along her body as if he owned it?