"You've been drinking, again." She states, looking with distaste at the lanky boy lying at her feet.

"Whater you care?" Drew slurs, unable to even open his eyes to glare at the girl standing over him. He tries to turn his head to keep his face out of the puddle of his own vomit that lay too close for comfort. He fails and just accepts that he's going to be breathing in fumes, though it does nothing to settle his angry stomach.

"I dont care, Andrew, but for some reason you're puking on my doorstep instead of your own. And that's disgusting.”

He tries to move, succeeding only in flopping his arms around like a dancing fish on a beach. “I think I’m dying.”

“Doubtful,” she scoffs, “but if you really feel that way, could you at least drag your carcass somewhere else? It will be bad enough cleaning up your puke, I don’t want to deal with your body, too." The distaste in her voice is clear enough that Drew can picture the pinched expression on her face.

He chuckles and manages to roll himself over, wincing as the corner of the cold, concrete stoop jams into his spine, "Move me yourself if you're bothered so much." Eyes still closed, the world continues to spin. He clutches at the sidewalk below him, desperate to hold everything steady, his nails peeling back from their cuticles. He will feel the pain in the morning but, for the moment, all he cares about is making this horrible sensation stop.

"Do you honestly think that I want to drag your ass in here so you can yack on my rug?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

There is a pause and he chances cracking open one bloodshot eye. The reflection of the streetlight off of the lenses of her glasses keeps him from being able to see her eyes, and he thinks that she looks like a mad scientist character from those Japanese cartoons she likes so much. The idea, again, makes him chuckle and he groans, closing his eyes and clutching his bloated, beer infested stomach.

He hears her sigh, and then feels small hands gripping him under his arms, lifting his torso away from the walk. He winces as the back of his jeans begin to slide away from his body, the thin, soft skin of his back scraping against the sandpaper surface of the concrete below him.

"Ow!" he yelps, "What the fuck, Margie, that hurts!”

She grunts and pulls him a little further into the house, "Then get up and walk yourself, asshole."

He feels his backside bump first against the corner of Margie's front stoop, and then again across the metal strip that separates the outside of the doorway from the in. He's dropped roughly, his head bouncing a bit on the soft, tan carpet that covers the living room floor. He forces his stomach back down in position, swallowing down the sour tasting saliva that has rushed into his mouth.

Margie storms into the kitchen, the soft thud of her footsteps replaced by loud bangs as she throws open cabinet doors. There is the tink of glasses being moved together and the tap being turned on, the pipes the walls groaning in response. After a few seconds, Drew hears her coming back toward him, the carpeting muffling her angry steps.

The glass is shoved into his hand and he clumsily tries to lift his head to meet it, managing only to spill the water down his front, soaking the grimy t-shirt that he has been wearing for the past three days. Margie sighs and takes the glass from his fumbling hand, pressing it steadily against his lips as she places one hand under his matted hair to hold his head up. He smiles wearily in thanks and then gulps the water down, his throat and stomach calming.

After drinking as much as he thinks is safe, he turns his head away, smiling, again, slightly. She takes the glass from his mouth and places it on the carpet beside them.

"Do you think you can make it onto the couch?" she asks.

He makes a noble effort of it, straining against his poisoned muscles as best he can, but the alcohol wins and again he's clutching the floor for dear life, praying that the world will hold still for just one moment. He shakes his head.

Again the response he receives is a sigh, "Well I can't lift you, so you're just gonna have to stay on the floor."

He burps, cringing at the acid feeling in his throat, "S'ok. I'm...I'm cool with that."

The small hands return, pressing against his side, forcing him to roll over onto his stomach. "There," Margie mumbles, "just stay like that so you don't choke to death if you puke again. Oh, and do it in this," he feels cold ceramic close to his cheek and cracks open an eye to see a large bowl next to his face. "Miss and I make you eat it." He tells himself that she's joking. She’s not, and he knows it, but it’s best to think optimistically.

She stands and moves away, the warmth disappearing from his side. The dark land behind his closed eyelids becomes darker as she switches off the light and leaves the room without another word.

Sighing, Drew snuggles into the inch of carpet that is now his bedding, curling into himself, both in an attempt to make himself more comfortable and to keep the contents of his stomach in place. If he's smaller, he thinks, the rocking will become less severe. For the fifty sixth time that night he tells himself that he will never drink again, knowing that he will forget the vow once his hangover the next morning fades.

It isn’t until his brain has finally become muddled enough that he's almost faded into sleep that he feels something cool and soft slide under his head, and then something warm float onto the rest of his body. He smells Margie's perfume as she leans over him, her lips pressing softly onto his temple in a goodnight kiss that is simple and chaste, and yet is filled with a tender emotion that Drew knows his tired, alcohol infused mind is imagining.

"'Night, asshole." she mutters in his ear, kissing him once again before moving back down the hall into her own room, “And this doesn’t mean we’re back together.” He hears her bedroom door close with a soft 'thump' before nuzzling his head deeper into her pillow, pulling her blanket tighter around his body, sliding into sleep to her scent.