Between the Bathroom and the Door

By Miss Moo.

I had spent the past ten minutes throwing up my own stomach acid.

I know that's not the best way to start a story, but it is better than throwing up someone else's stomach acid. Okay, I'm sorry, that was gross.

So anyway, I had been at this really kick ass party and we'd all been drinking vodka cruisers, which have like, a million calories or something, and I was starting to feel way out of control. I hate that; being out of control, I mean. So I was dancing with a couple of my friends in this dude's house (called Thomas or Simon or something) when suddenly I realized that when I woke up tomorrow not only was I going to feel completely hung over and embarrassed about whatever stupid thing my drunk-ass did that night, but I was also going to weigh like, three thousand kilos. Which is so not attractive.

Naturally I found a solution: Three fingers, and Thomas' (or Simon's) upstairs bathroom.

You see, the thing is, at parties like Simon's (or Thomas') no place is sacred. I must blame my lack of sobriety on getting caught while gagging over my right fist. That's nearly as unattractive as the whole weighing three thousand kilos thing.

"What the fuck!"

That was the last sound I heard just before the splash of blue alcohol hitting the already murky toilet water. Mixed along side a good dosage retching, of course.

Before turning around I made sure to wipe the vomit off of my face (and hands) with toilet paper and flush the incriminating evidence down the drain. I was still rather tipsy, mind you, and my mind wasn't entirely with the situation.

When I did, eventually, turn around I was met with the incredulous glare of some strangely delicious, rocker guy. He was skinny in that 'I work out like hell, but don't eat the protein to really bulk up' kind of way and had messy dark brown hair that was pretty much black in the flimsy lighting of the bathroom. He was wearing black skinny jeans which could have very well been the same as mine, and a grey 'Presets' shirt.

I fluffed my bleached blonde hair a little and glared at him, "What the fuck do you want?" I demanded.

He looked ready to growl, instead he said with forced patience; "For you to get the fuck out of my bathroom."

I smiled at him menacingly, although I was, as I've admitted, more drunk than sober and that smile really could have looked like anything.

"Ah," I said, "So you must be Simon."

He rolled his eyes. They were brown.

"Luke actually."

Ah, so it wasn't Simon nor Thomas; my bad.

"That's a pretty name," I purred.

He cursed under his breath and glared at me with loathing.

I groaned; my head was starting to hurt, "Doesn't really suit you all that well."

Suddenly I was being grabbed by the wrist, dragged off the cool location on the tiled floor, out of the bathroom and into the still deserted upstairs hallway.

"Hey," I cried, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Taking you somewhere where you can pass out in peace," he growled back.

For some reason, which I can't quite explain now, I found that fucking hilarious.

I started giggling and drooping towards the ground. I could tell that he was struggling to drag me along now. His breathing was coming in short pants as he jerked me along. I laughed harder.

"Come. On." He ordered through pants.

"Hey," I said innocently, looking up at him through my runny mascara, "If you wanted to play rough, all you had to do was ask."

Fueled by my jeering comments, he gave my arm one harsh tug and I went flying forwards, barreling him over as I did so. We both landed on the floor, although I had enough common sense, even in my drunken state, to ensure that he cushioned my fall and I landed comfortably atop his chest.

"Gerroff me!" He grunted.

Feeling stubborn I neglected to oblige; "No."

"I said get the fuck off me!"

I looked at him as innocently as I could (which, admittedly, wasn't very innocent) and fluttered my eyelashes, "Get you the fuck off? Why sure."

I trailed my hands down his abdomen in a very suggestive manner when all of a sudden a figure appeared at the stop of the stairs.

"Oh," came a soft feminine voice. I looked up to see this little blonde thing with no boobs, angelic blond curls and the face of a young Kate Moss observing us with small, shiny tears pooling beneath her eyes.

"fuck." Luke swore.

"Mmm, that's right baby," I purred, "fuck indeed."

The girl tried to hold back a sob, 'I-I just- I heard a thud and I- I wanted to make sure that you were -that everything was-" She couldn't hold back the sob any longer. It wrenched itself from her throat with a pitiful amount of force before she flung herself around and flew back down the steps.

The hall was silent for a moment.

"Girlfriend?" I asked, breaking that moment.

Quickly coming out of his stupor, Luke pushed me off his lap with renewed vigor. My back and elbow thudded against the wall of the hall and I was sure I was going to bruise tomorrow.

"fuck." Luke swore for the hundredth time that night. He flew down the steps with desperate speed after the already departed angel girl. I took a moment to stop my brain from sloshing around inside my skull before stumbling down after them.

By the time I pushed through the other party goers and reached the front door he had already caught her arm in a gentle grip on the front lawn.

"Please." He murmured gently.

I stood silently by the front door, a voyeur to their moment.

She turned to face him and her eyes were fucking glistening with unshed tears.

"It doesn't matter," she said in a shaky voice, "I don't care; we're not together."

His voice was breaking as he pulled her closer and spoke, "That's bullshit. You care. I know you do: I care too."

She took a ragged breath, "How can you say that? How can you make me feel... all this, and then paw some random slut right in front of me? God Luke, it hurts!"

It fucking hurt? I scoffed to myself. Naive bitch.

"I didn't- It wasn't. God Janey, you've got to believe me. It wasn't like that. I don't want her. I didn't want her to begin with. I just -" His voice cracked, "I just want you."

Angel chick let a single tear roll down her cheek in an act of cinematic genius. He brushed it away with the pad of his thumb and whispered something against her lips. I didn't catch what he said, but she let out something between a sob and a laugh in response.

Then they kissed.

And the whole fucking sky erupted in fireworks and doves and little fucking angels that looked like naked babies with bows and arrows and curly blond hair.

I wanted to roll my eyes and throw something at them. Anything to break the moment. Anything.

But I couldn't. Because it was so goddamned special and so fucking heartbreaking that I couldn't bare to do anything but stand there watching.

My arms were covered in goosebumps, my back thudded violently with heat where I was beginning to bruise and my stomach was going to burst something crazy. It felt like I was going to die or something.

God, you probably won't even believe me when I say this because I didn't even know fucking anything about them until that night, but in a way I did die a little. I mean, I wasn't the same after that night. I wasn't completely different, and I didn't act different; but I was.

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(AN: Just because I've been so depressed by the mass quantities of sappy bullshit I've been spitting out by the handful. I don't love this, but it just came out. The easiest story I've written since 'The Baby' (on my other account). And I wrote the word 'fuck' seventeen times, so that's gotta count for something.

Now, just in case you don't get it, this is a scene you've read millions of times before. You know these characters. You've loved them and hated them. And finally that girl with the blond hair, vanity and no right to touch that deserving, angelic, lovable girl's soulmate gets to have her say about how things went. She's my favorite character, because no one does the stuff she does without a reason, yet her actions loose their integrity when you attempt to explain them. So this was the best I could do; a half way point of sorts.)