You Sunshine, You Temptress (l.s)

You Can't Blame Me, Darling

Harry

Sunny days in England around this time of year are far and few between. The constant overcast of mundane clouds, the slight drizzle falling upon everything like a never-ending mist is enough to make anyone miserable. To make you beg for sunlight.

But when that nauseating pain creeps its way up into the base of my skull, spreading like a web throughout my dizzy head, aching and persistent like a fresh bruise, I find myself grateful for the overcast and the lack of sunlight shining in through my curtains. 

In fact, if my eyes would've opened to greet the sun just now, I might've been just the slightest bit tempted to burn all of England to the ground.

A strange and unsettling feeling seems to set its way into the pit of my stomach. For a second I think it must be what is undoubtedly a hangover, but I feel as though it's more than that. A subtle suspicion that things have gone terribly wrong. It's small, nearly fictitious, but it's there. 

I sit up in bed, the bitter taste of whiskey lingering in the back of my throat which suddenly feels achingly dry.  I turn over to grab an old glass of water from my bedside table but before my fingers can even touch the glass, my eyes dart to the floor and that strange feeling sinks further into my stomach, nearly making me sick.

He lays still on his stomach, the blanket stopping just above his hips and his upper body completely bare. His skin, tan and dewy, looking so warm and inviting and everything it shouldn't be to me right now.

He's here. He's here on my bedroom floor completely asleep and I think I may just throw up all over my bedding right here and now.

"Fuck," I mutter to myself, rubbing at my eyes with my knuckles and pushing my hair away. Oddly enough, I'd appreciate it If he stayed asleep for a bit. I need to get my bearings and figure out a course of action for when he wakes up.

As if it happened just to spite me, he begins to stir, his head lifting from the pillow and his body moving a little too much for him to still be asleep. I don't dare to look away, not as he stretches his arms and sits up, not when he rubs the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand and gains full consciousness, and not even when he stares directly back at me.

He's as silent as I am, glare set directly on my puzzled face and his lips pressed into a straight line as if he's just waiting. Curious to see what I do.

"Hello," I say without thinking. He blinks twice, watching me intently.

"Hi," he says with that deep rasp he only gets in the early hours of the morning or the late hours of the night.

"You're uhm...you're here."

"I am," he says with a nod. 

We're silent for a few seconds too long. He still has yet to look away from me and I'm the first to break the eye contact, glancing toward the clock that reads 7:03. We have school in an hour and a half and I'd like to get some answers before then.

"Mind telling me why that is?" I ask, rubbing my hands over my knees.

He looks at the floor, shoulders slumped over and his right hand rubbing against the back of his neck, seemingly to be deep in thought. Then, standing to his feet and shoving his hands in his pockets, he clears his throat and speaks.

"You hungry?"

"Huh?"

"You had a lot to drink last night. That hangover is gonna be brutal already as it is and it'll be even worse if you start dry heaving with an empty stomach," he nods a bit as he speaks, almost like he's convincing himself.