The Next Morning, Way stirred groggily on the couch, head pounding like a drumline. The sunlight filtering through the blinds felt like a personal attack. Groaning, he pushed himself up, the thick fabric draped over him slipping slightly from his shoulders.
๐๐๐ฎ : A coat?
He blinked. Realising that it didn't belong to him. Way brought it to his nose instinctively and inhaled.
It was dark, heavy, smelled faintly of leather, sandalwood, and smoke. Familiar.
His brows furrowed.
๐๐๐ฎ : Pete.
He knew that scent. It was distinct and commanding, like the man himself.
Confused, Way tossed the coat aside and stumbled toward the bathroom, fingers rubbing his temple. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, trying to recall all of the blurred memories.
Finally, as he looked up to stare into the mirror.
That's when he saw it.
A faint mark on his bottom lip. Not a bruise, not exactly. But something...
His breath caught slightly as the night before played back in his head like a stuttered reel - flashes of warmth, lips pressed against his, the ache in his chest, the desperation. But the only problem was the person he was kissing, remained blurred... He tried to link the dots,
๐๐๐ฎ : The Coat, the scent, this bruise... Could it be Mr. Pete? Ugh no way. Never. I hate him and he hates me why would we kiss-
He said as he splashed the water on his face, once again.
๐๐๐ฎ : What am I even thinking?!
He leaned closer to the mirror, narrowing his eyes.
๐๐๐ฎ : Must've... bit my lip last night.
He muttered under his breath, too fast, too dismissive. He looked away quickly, as if that would make the thought vanish.
And, It didn't.
Days Later, Way hadn't left his apartment since.
The curtains remained drawn. The air was thick with stale alcohol and silence. His phone buzzed constantly for the first few days - Babe's name lighting up the screen over and over, but Way never picked up. He couldn't. Not after what happened. Not after realizing how thoroughly he'd lost control and about how Babe chose someone else.
And to top it off, The curiosity of who the person could've been made his head pound.
He barely remembered that night. He didn't even know who took him home.
And he didn't care.
He didn't want to know. Because he was sure that it wasn't Babe.
He spent his nights drinking like it was the only language left in his body, bottles collecting like quiet witnesses on the floor. He tried to forget. Tried to numb the ache of Babe's voice echoing in his head, of memories replaying like a scratched record.
But nothing worked.
It was sometime past noon when he woke with a groan, throat raw, stomach sour. Ten bottles deep, judging by the count scattered across his living room.
Then, there was a knock on the door.
He groaned again and dragged himself off the couch, hair a mess, shirt hanging off one shoulder. He staggered toward the door.
Pizza?
Did he even order any?
He cracked the door open - and froze.
It wasn't the pizza guy.
It Was Alan.