Fruitloops | ✓

f i v e

Chapter 5: Types of drunkards

I was still ill, and it had been two days. Of course, fevers could go longer than that, but it was unusual for me to fall ill. The last time I did, I was fifteen, and that was four years ago.

I fumbled around in Vince's bed. The cologne he wore had definitely rubbed off on his sheets, and the menthol fragrant of his shampoo definitely rubbed off his hair while he slept.

On so many extends, this was wrong. Yet this was amazing.

His pillow was extremely soft, and I didn't like it. It was the type of pillows that were in hotel rooms - soft and sunk so deep when you lay on it that it was almost as this as paper in the end - and I hated those.

His sheets, however, were very, very soft, so that made up for the paper-thin-pillows. And I loved it so much to a point where I scared myself.

And yes, I was on Vince's bed.

Two days ago, Summer and I had a huge argument on who would get the bed since I was ill. I offered to take the couch, in fact I wanted to, but Summer didn't want me to. I hoped for her to have a good night's sleep since she was going to school tomorrow, so I'd let her take the bed. But no. Then Zak came along and yelled at us for bickering.

Then, being the good ol' other brother, he'd offered his bed, so he'd sleep on the couch. But I didn't want him to, for he had to get up early and start off work, so he deserved a good night's sleep as well.

Lastly, Vince came. And I had no strong argument with him. He had no work tomorrow, since it was his day-off, and he had no school since he was twenty-two. I shut up immediately once he told me that I had no fight. He'd said, "You're sleeping on my bed. Period." That didn't stop the guilt from rolling in though, for he had to sleep on the couch that was half the size of his bed. While I, on the other hand, got his comfy, soft bed to sleep on.

Vince's room was much like any other twenty-two year old guys. He was still in the teenage stage I guess. The walls were white, almost like a gray. He had band posters plastered on the walls, which I think was what he was going for, as the posters popped out from the white wall. Nirvana, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles and so on. His sheets were black, which also contrasted with the walls. When I was first introduced to his room two days ago, he had boxers and tee-shirts scattered around the room. After thirty minutes of cleaning up the clothes, it looked too neat to be a guy's room.

So here I am, in his bed, and have been, for two days.

I pulled the blanket off my body, the heat becoming unbearable. Then the air-conditioning acted upon me, and my feet felt extremely cold. And still, at the age of nineteen, I still thought the girl from The Ring might pull at my leg.

Groaning, I got out of bed.

I really, really wanted sleep, but I couldn't. It was almost like this was the first day I entered this house. I fumbled around in the bed, and now, it was exactly the same.

Walking past the couch, I saw Vince lying on it, his arm behind his head. Worst of all, he was topless.

His abdominals were too defined, and he had an eight pack not a six. They made it hard not to stare at. I found myself unable to look away.

"It's rude to stare at people sleep," Vince said softly, his eyes still shut.

I jumped, shrieked and looked away. My cheeks were pretty much pink, without even looking. In fact, my cheeks were so pink they couldn't even be counted in the shades of pink, but it wasn't red either, for it was too dark to be red. So basically, my cheeks had just created a non-existent shade of pink. And I'll call it cheeky. Not very original, but oh well.

"I wasn't staring," I lied, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Sure, honey," he snorted.

"Besides, even if I were staring - which I wasn't - you weren't asleep, since you could speak, so it's not counted as rude," I rolled my eyes, but felt the stupidity roll into me when I realized it was too dark for him to see.

"Touché," he stood up and headed towards me.

I grabbed a bowl and Fruitloops, obviously, and poured some milk into the bowl.

"Make me a bowl, please?" Vince asked.

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"But you woke me up," he pouted.

I literally had to take a moment, to accept that pout. To accept how cute he looked. As much as I hated calling Vince cute, he did look as such with that pout.

And all day everyday too.

I pushed that thought out of my mind immediately and proceeded to make Vince a bowl of Fruitloops.

I didn't add any milk in his though, because there was only so little left.

"You're mean," he grumbled as he looked at the cereal in his bowl.

"It's not my fault you drank so much of the milk in the morning," I rolled my eyes and stuck my tongue out at him.

"They say it helps when you have a hangover."

Oh right. Vince came home a little wobbly one night ago. He slammed the door so loudly both Zak and I woke up. Summer, apparently, didn't.

Lucky arse.

Since Zak was older and had more experience in the drunk-hangover state, he did most of it.

Vince was a very, very stereotypical drunk. Or at least under the five types of drunkards in my mind.

1. The emotional drunks; those that'd cry and sob at their problems.

2. The truth-be-told drunks; those that'd spill basically every single secret while they are drunk.

3. The words-don't-exist drunks; those that'd slur globbleholipople without actual words and grammar.

4. The happy drunks; those that'd be giggly and laughing so much, as if they were in some kind of Unicorn Island.

And lastly, 5. The pervertic drunks; those that'd physically rape or eye-rape people like there was no tomorrow.

And Vince, was number three and four. He couldn't stop laughing, and laughing, and laughing. And all he could do was laugh and speak giberish.

"Could you give me some milk please? This is gross," he grunted.

"You did not just call Fruitloops gross," I warned, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Without milk," he added to his statement.

"Even so," I raised my hands, "Fruitloops are still amazing by itself."

"I don't eat cereal without milk."

"Fine," I switched bowls with him, and I was stuck with the milk-less bowl of Fruitloops.

"Thank you," he grinned like a kid on Christmas day, and took a spoonful of deliciousness.

I looked at the spoon he was about to put into his mouth, the droplets of milk urging to drop from the bottom of the spoon.

Cringing as his lips enveloped the spoon and I heard the crunch of the cereal, I looked down at my bowl.

Why did I even switch bowls with him?

"Want some?" he pushed his bowl to me.

The Fruitloops cried at me, urged for me to just take a spoonful, and before I knew it, I was almost sinking my spoon into his bowl of cereal.

"You wish," he retracted the bowl and giggled at me, before taking a spoon of cereal to his mouth.

And yes, he giggled.

"You're mean," I pouted and repeated the words he had said in the span of five minutes we've been talking.

"Oh honey, I know," he smirked and continued eating the milked-Fruitloops.

Oh those Fruitloops.

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