The party isn't nearly as stressful as the pub quiz last week - this time, as opposed to being stuck on a table right in the middle of all the chaos, you're free to roam wherever you want with whoever you choose. 

You find Lewis and chat with him for a while - he's got hold of some gin, and now he's already a little jollier than usual. He offers you some, but you tell him that you're not drinking tonight, as per usual.

You spot Turps vlogging with his camera in the corner, and make your way over to him.

"Turps," you shout over the music - and even then he has to crane to hear you. "Why are you filming now? It's too dark to see."

"Oh, it'll be fine."

You spot someone waving at you from a distance - a fan, maybe? You should probably go see who it is.

"I'll see you later, Turps. Drink responsibly."

"I won't!"

"I know."

As you draw closer, you realise the person is Smith, and you suddenly feel nervous for some reason.

"Hiya," you say. 

"Okay?" he asks, having to shout to be heard over the music. "Lewis told me you're not drinking tonight."

"He's right."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouts back. "You're allowed to let yourself go, you know."

"Nah, I'm good, mate," you reply. "How many have you had, anyway?"

"Oh, only one or two. Or three. And a half."

Usually three and a half would give you a hangover in the morning, but looking at the size of Smith, you know it'll take a lot more for him.

"Hey, you're looking at me again," he protests, smirking slightly.

"Am I not allowed to look at you?"

"Well, if you're going to stare at my nips, you might as well be discreet about it."

"I wasn't fucking staring at your forklift nips," you say. "I was just thinking."

Smith laughs. "Just thinking. Sure, mate."

You blush, glad no one will be able to see in the darkness of the hall. 

You remember when Smith had stared at you on the coach, and tell him so. 

He shrugs. "I guess we're even, then. What do you think of the music?"

You hesitate for a moment, listening. "It's okay, I guess. You?"

"Fucking love it." And just then, the chorus begins, and Smith begins to sing along, not as loud as the drunks next to you - only loud enough so you're the only one who can hear.

There's an explainable warmth about his voice, even when he's not singing - and when he is, it sends shivers down your spine, makes your face heat up.

Is he showing off to me? you wonder.

"What a show off," you scoff, looking up at him when he's finished, when actually, you're confused now - confused about your feelings.

"Oh, you love it, though," he grins, and your heart flutters. "I'll see you around, Trott's calling me over."

"What a prick," you smile.

"What a prick indeed," he laughs - a gentle, distinctive sound, full of genuine humour. "You have fun."

"Drink responsibly," you say, remembering what you said to Turps earlier.

"Oh, no guarantee of that," he grins, moving away.

Once he's gone, disappearing within the moving crowd, you navigate your way to the toilets.

This can't be happening. After all the time you've spent with Lewis, thinking there's no one else you'll love more than him, you're falling for someone else...

You lean against the door to the hallway, bringing your hands up to clutch your face, wiping the sweat off your forehead.

Maybe you've been wrong all this time - because Smith's definitely shown a genuine interest in you - showing off with his singing, joking about how you keep looking at him, and in the coach, when he was most definitely staring at you.

Whereas with Lewis - well, you can't really tell. 

Groaning with reluctance, you straighten up, brushing out the creases in your outfit, and return to the chaos.

____________________________________________________

You're just getting some water when someone bumps into you.

"Sorry -" you start, turning round, until you realise who it is. "Hey, Lewis."

"Hey," he says in a weird voice - and that's when you realise just how drunk he is. He's barely standing upright, and as it is, he's swaying slightly on his feet.

"How many have you had, Lewis?"

"Fuck knows," he replies. 

He's going to end up doing something stupid, tripping over his own feet, dropping a bottle, starting a fight if you leave him like this, and you know it. You've never been with an excessively drunk Lewis, but you'd been told stories by the others - like the Datlof instance, for example.

"Lewis," you say, grabbing his arm firmly. "We're going home."

He doesn't even argue - he nods awkwardly, stumbling forwards. "Sure."

As you leave the hall, you take one final look back - no one's watching you, except a tall figure at the bar. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who he is.

Smith raises a hand, waving politely; the lights change and flash over him for a second, illuminating him long enough for you to see his smirk.

The walk back to the hotel seems like it takes years - it's only across a few roads, but Lewis keeps tripping, eventually forcing you to have him lean on you. Luckily, he's a relatively small guy, and his weight isn't too difficult to support.

"I'm sorry," you say, as you approach the hotel door. "Sorry to ruin your fun. I just didn't want you to run into trouble."

"You were probably right," he says, slurring slightly.

"What's your room number?" you ask. 

"Can't remember. I know I'm not sharing with anyone."

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath. You end up asking the receptionist, who stares at you bemusedly as you stumble away, Lewis' arm on your shoulder.

His room is on the same floor as yours - you decide to walk him back to his room, because by now, you're sure he's just going to end up falling over and knocking himself out in the corridor or something. 

"Here we are," you say weakly as you unlock his door for him. You place his key on the table and turn round. "You alright to stand by yourself?"

"Think so," he mumbles, lifting himself off your shoulder. He's definitely swaying, but he's fine.

You sigh. "Never seen you this drunk."

"I know," he replies hoarsely. He places a hand on the table to steady himself, and looks up at you.

He doesn't look drunk - there's no splatters of drink across his clothes, or messed up hair, or anything, really - he just looks like himself.

"I'm going to go to my room, now," you say, without moving. "Okay?"

You stand there, looking at him in silence, waiting for him to speak. He closes his eyes, concentrating, dropping his head to look at the floor.

"There's a reason for it," he murmurs, reopening his eyes.

You frown. "Reason for what?"

"Two weeks ago. I hid it from you."

"What?"

"Her."

"Oh..." Then it clicks. He's telling you about Ellie, and how he hid her from you. Maybe you should leave, now - Lewis definitely wouldn't be telling you this if he were sober. What if he remembers he told you in the morning, and then freaks out?

"I need to tell you," he adds, brown eyes fixing onto yours again, full of deadly seriousness, without a hint of drunkenness.

"Go on, then," you reply, swallowing.

"I wasn't sure I'd done the right thing." He pauses. "I didn't want to tell you, because I thought you'd freak out, and, you know..." He struggles for words again, steadying himself on his hand on the table again, eyes never leaving your face. "I didn't want you to be jealous."

It feels wrong - like listening in to Lewis' private thoughts. But this is important - this is no drunken rambling. He's telling you the truth.

I didn't want you to be jealous. 

I wasn't sure I'd done the right thing.

You exhale. You should feel relieved that you've finally got an answer - but you're too tired now, and too caught up in your feelings to feel good about it.

"Thanks for telling me that, Lewis." 

He just stares on, eyes sliding away to look at the door behind you. 

"Lewis - are you okay?"

"Can I - can I do something?"

"Sure," you say uncertainly. 

He nods, and then removes his hand from the table, balancing himself on the balls of his feet cautiously. And then he moves his hands to your shoulders, pushing you backwards towards the door, and instinctively, you move yours to his waist.

"Lewis," you whisper, listening to your rapid heartbeat.

He doesn't reply; instead, he gently pulls you in towards him, tilting his head, closing his eyes; you mirror his movements.

Usually, you hate the taste of alcohol, but somehow, now, you don't seem to mind it that much - in fact, you feel your hands moving to Lewis' hair, pulling him in more closely to get more of that intoxicating taste, and he moans, lips moving to a rhythm with yours.

You've wanted to do this for ages, of course - but it feels wrong now, because Lewis doesn't have complete control of himself - are you taking advantage of him?

But he's the one who made the move. He's the one who asked if he could try.

Shivers run up and down your limbs, as Lewis moves closer to you, forcing you against the door, so he's pinning your body against it with his, and you don't dare to open your eyes, knowing his are closed too; and your whole body is on fire, alight with pleasure and fear and confusion. 

You break away, breathing heavily, opening your eyes, and Lewis does the same. He pulls back slightly, so you're face to face with him, arms wrapped around his neck; his hands are planted on the door either side of your head, keeping you in place. 

"Okay?" he asks quietly, withdrawing his hands so you can move.

You nod, making no effort to step away, hairs tingling on every inch of your skin. 

"Good." And then he moves in towards you again.

You wonder to yourself how he can have so much control now, in his current state, after God knows how much gin. But he's not forceful - he's just gentle, cradling you in his arms, pressing you closer to him, making you feel impossibly good.

He pulls away again, and presses his forehead to yours gently. "I don't care if you like Smith," he mutters. "This is here and now."

You almost step back, out of his embrace. Lewis is - jealous? Of you and Smith?

"Do you?" He looks a bit scared now, like he's realised he's said too much; and his eyes are more intense than ever now. "Do you like him?"

You take a deep breath, and bite your lip; the movement causes Lewis' eyes to flit down and stare for a moment, and you swallow nervously.

You find Alex attractive - of course you do. But you don't really love him - it's more of a fangirl-y crush. Not love. 

But with Lewis, you're sure.

"No," you murmur. "You don't have to be jealous. I don't love him."

"Don't lie to me to make me feel better."

"I'm not."

He hesitates, then moves a hand up to tangle his fingers in your hair. "Sorry I forced you into that."

"It's okay. I'm glad you did."

"Me too." He leans into you again, hands moving cautiously to your shirt; you feel every muscle in your body tense suddenly, tell you that this is wrong.

"Lewis."

His head snaps up again.

"Lewis, I need to get back to my room - now."

He nods disappointedly. "I know."

"You should probably get to sleep too. And drink lots of water. It might make it easier for you in the morning."

"Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

Back in your room, you're sitting on your bed, head in hands. 

You were just kissing Lewis - it's all you've wanted for ages! 

So why do you feel guilty?

You groan with exhaustion and frustration, because you know that if Lewis had been sober, none of that would have happened. It just wasn't him.

And replaying the events back in your mind, you noted that Lewis hadn't said, once, throughout the whole thing, those three words that you longed to hear from him so much.

So, so much.

But of course, nothing ever goes to plan.

Maybe it was a one time thing. Maybe he was just taking out his frustrations on you. Maybe he didn't love you after all.

After brushing your teeth to rid the sour taste of alcohol from your mouth and changing into your PJs, you collapse into your bed in the fetal position, marvelling at how unlucky you are.

__________________________________________

A/N: The chapter title doesn't lie.