World Cup [larry stylinson a.u.]

41.0

THE TEASE

Right after we exchanged ours ‘I moron you’, we went back to cuddling. His face is on my chest and so is one of his hands, his other arm is under my back and I don’t understand how isn’t he complaining about it being dead yet. I know I’d be bitching about it if I were in his position.

“I feel so lazy today,” he breaks a long pause of silence.

“You are just hungover,” I whisper.

My lips are resting on his head while I softly play with his hair, taking deep breaths of his amazing scent every time I get the chance.

My other hand is behind my own head and, I swear, I’ve never in my life felt more relaxed. This ‘putting my feelings out there’ thingy is kind of fun. Only God knows how much effort I put into escaping from it but, so far, it seems to be working out just fine.

“I didn’t drink that much,” he sighs, “How do you do it anyways?”

“How do I do what?”

“The Hangovers,” he looks at me, “You seem to… Um, well, drink a lot. Not that I’m calling you an alcoholic or anything but-”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I cut him off.

“I know you aren’t,” he rests his chin on my chest and looks at me in a way that makes me want to kiss him again.

“It worries me sometimes though,” I confess.

“How does it worry you?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug, “I do drink a lot. I’m not drunk all day long but I probably drink every day, at night, before going to bed.”

“Um,” he takes a pause, “As long as you are in control, you shouldn’t worry about it.”

“But I do worry about it, isn’t that what I just said?” I snap at him.

“Grumpy,” he rolls over to stare at the ceiling, just like I’m doing.

“Sorry,” I fake a smile; “I just don’t want to stress about it right now.”

“It’s okay but, just for the record, you can talk to me about it whenever you want,” he answers.

“It’s like… Let’s see… When I drink, I forget about everything else, you know?” I stay in silence for a while and so does he, “There are… some stuff… some stuff I don’t like about myself. So when I drink, I just forget about them and things are good for a while.”

“I get your point, that happens to me sometimes too,” he admits.

“What would you not like about you?”

“Lots of stuff,” he laughs, “I stress over my future most of the time.”

“Me too,” I sigh, “But I’m confident that things will change from now on. Because I’m not worried about my future that much.”

“What are you worried about then?”

“I’ve always been afraid of ending up alone,” I sigh, half embarrassed, half relieved, “And I was aware of the fact that I wasn’t doing anything to not end up alone. It was awful every morning, while running away from some dude’s apartment, getting inside and elevator and trying so hard to avoid glancing at the mirror because facing myself was… the last thing I wanted to do.”

“And now you are not doing it anymore,” he smiles at me, “So there’s nothing to feel bad about.”

“I know,” I smile at myself, “I’m happy about it.”