angel cake ♡ tom holland/sebastian stan/chris evans oneshots

Drunk // Chris Evans

   Alcohol does not do for you what it does for your friends. They get funny and flirty and sad sometimes, but it makes you the funniest you've ever been, sends your libido into overdrive and makes you so utterly depressing that you can kill the good mood of an entire party with just one statement (a skill, really). It took you a while to work out that happened, a very long while of drinking the same as everyone else but being so differently affected it was like you'd had three times as much as they had, but when you did you instantly went cold turkey. You still went to parties, of course, but no drink from the house entered your body unless it was directly from a tap. It did good for you as well in general life - you didn't get hangovers, you felt healthier, you didn't leak your own nudes. You felt a little prim and out of place sometimes if you chose to skip a party altogether and your roommate came back off-her-face drunk with some friends to have a little party of her own in your room, though, and you missed it a little. But the next day when she was running out of a lecture to chuck her guts, you felt just a little smug.

   The strict sobriety followed you into adulthood, giving you the general title of designated-driver at any given party you attended. There was always the part of you that convinced your mind that with age, you were better at handling alcohol, and so inevitably you got wasted and woke up thirty two miles from home in some girl's bed beneath her mural of an attractive woman with no clothes on. This was a vicious cycle until you turned twenty five, at which point you just stopped entirely.

   Which was how you found yourself at one of the many informal Met Gala after-parties completely un-drunk and trying your very best to not step in vomit.

   Everywhere you looked there was someone who had once been blasted on your TV screen or across the front page of a fashion magazine, now laughing raucously or touching each other with the same hands that bared matrimonial gold bands. You were a little anxious about coming in the first place - only because these people were important, not because you feared the drunkenness that had ensued. Kylie Jenner had, about five minutes before, bounced over to you and asked you if you could braid her hair (which you did, earning you an enthusiastic kiss on the lips). The entire situation was surreal.

   It was when you were stood at the very edge of the rented club shifting from foot to foot when you realised you didn't actually have to be there. There was no legal obligation, you'd been there for almost three hours and you were TIRED. You just wanted to be at home right now, snuggling with your stupid lollopy dog and turning on a TV show you wouldn't even make an episode through. You smiled a little, then tucked your hair behind your ears with purpose, darting around people with expertise and being careful not to bump into anyone lest they try and convince you to dance with them and stay longer.

   You made it to your car before realising you had lost your keys.

   When you were fifteen, you went to America for a drama trip. Whilst there, you stayed in a hotel, and there was a family using the room across from you, who had a son a little older than you (though by how much you never knew). You started something of a weeklong romance with this boy, rendezvousing on the roof of the building to talk and giggle and kiss a little. At the time, it was the best thing to ever happen to you, and he must've felt the same, because on your last night he gave you an arc reactor key ring. You kissed him again to the point of lying down and over-the-clothes touching, but then his phone rung and he left, neither one of you thinking to get the other's number or Instagram or something. And that key ring was what you kept every single one of your keys on.

   And you had lost it.

   A moment of frantic pocket-checking followed, but no matter what you did, the keys were absolutely fucking gone.