1.3 | the art of cupidity ✓ - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

When her boyfriend comes home drunk, Sora begins to think that hell might've just frozen over. His cheeks are flushed, glowing, slightly tinted with peach and there's the thinnest sheen of sweat glazing his cheekbones. Here's the thing: Rylin never gets drunk. He's usually designated driver, and Sora's pretty sure he doesn't even like the taste of alcohol even though he won't admit it. Most of the time, it's her boyfriend that's brushing her teeth and wiping the eyeliner off of her face if she's too tired to do it herself. She's gotten used to the feeling of chunky glitter being swiped clean off of her eyelids, the taste of lipstick on her teeth as he kisses it off of her.
("If you don't stay still, you're going to wake up with this powdery shit and concealer smeared all over your pillowcase."
Sora sticks her tongue out. "You're so mean."
Rylin tilts his head and sighs. "You're annoying. Just stop moving, dammit."
"Wait, wait, c'mere—want to kiss you. Please, just—"
"Sora, what the fuck.")
So their nights continue, blending into days and months. Four hours ago, Sora was sitting on the couch typing up her final research paper for psychology and checking her phone for texts. She'd rolled her eyes with a smile. When she saw the hi love i'm going out tonight with the team do you want to come? text, Sora scrunched her nose in distaste. No, she didn't want to come, but she thanked him for the offer and told him to have lots of fun but to also stay safe. She had more pressing matters to attend to, like her very large assignment.
She doesn't go to every game. With junior year slamming her knees into the concrete, Sora doesn't always have the time to constantly support Rylin in person, and he's okay with it. Instead, she kind of secretly likes him coming home to take-out and his freshly-washed pajamas laying on the bed. Sora still can't cook, but she's getting better, even going so far to look up all of those healthy-as-shit recipes on the internet to recreate before he has an intense practice. She likes it when he comes out of the shower and shows her post-game pictures with his teammates and she especially likes it when Rylin comes home still feeling a little high off of adrenaline. That's when he kisses her the best, arguably the roughest, hauling her up against the wall or the back of the couch, his mouth smoky but at odds with the tenderness of his fingers as they span across her throat.
But sometimes, like now, he comes home drunk. And she doesn't mean the tipsy kind, where he's still him but lined with tequila. She means drunk. Absolutely hammered. She's still on the couch, blanket pooled around her waist, as she hears the familiar jangle of keys outside of their door. It takes him so much longer than usual that Sora loses her patience, gets up, and yanks the door herself. Waiting for him has never been her strong suit.
She grunts as he falls into her arms like he's done it many times before, and maybe he has. Sora chuffs, lets out a sigh of ingenuine indignation, and hauls him inside. He's heavy, made of lean muscle. It's ridiculous. She leans his body against the wall and immediately scans the entire length of him to make sure he's okay.
There's a sticky note with Adrian's handwriting posted on his chest. Drank too much vodka! it says. Stuck his ass in an uber, sorry!
Against the wall, Rylin is disastrously tall. He's mumbling something underneath his breath. And he's handsome, too, darkness wrapped around his frame and his hair falling down over his forehead, damp with a little bit of sweat and the midnight dew. She notes the strong line of his nose, the sharp cut of his jaw. She stares at the way his lashes flutter just a bit, collarbone jutting out under his black tee.
Sora rises up on her tiptoes to hear what he's saying.
He smells like alcohol, go figure. "Ice Queen," he murmurs, slurring his syllables. "Pass me—no, the puck." Rylin grins sloppily, eyes glinting. "Need you. Cold outside, kind of, I think."
She flicks his forehead, stares at him with barely concealed annoyance, and presses a swift kiss to the center of his right cheek. "You're lucky I submitted my assignment on time, or else you would have slept in the hallway, buddy," Sora grumbles. They both know she's bluffing, but he always lets her get away with it. He lets her get away with a lot of things.
Rylin laughs even though Sora knows he probably doesn't understand her fully. "Would've taken care of myself," he tells her. "I'm your boy, no? Can take myself to bed, if you're busy."
She purses her lips. "I don't see any correlation between those two." But still, Sora's heart warms inside of her chest. Slowly, she kneels down and gets on her knees before him, looking up at the last second to see Rylin standing up a little straighter in curiosity. Even like this, he's beautiful. Sharp.
"What're you doing?"
Sora snorts. "Can't have you walking around the apartment with your shoes on, now can we? Give me your leg, you ass. It's late."
Her boyfriend tilts his head. "Love you," he slurs. "Know you know."
"Yeah?" she asks, smiling when he can't see her. "If you love me, then give me your foot. What are you, Cinderella?"
Rylin laughs, the sound throaty and warm as she undoes his laces to his Chuck Taylors, the scent of cologne and home drifting underneath of her nose. "We're pretty as shit," he tells her, a crooked grin making her poor heart do five tumbles. Sora moves onto the other shoe in minutes, and stills completely when Rylin leans down and curls his fist gently in her hair, thumbing the strands between his fingertips. He yanks gently so she looks at him, her throat exposed in a grateful arc.
Even drunk, she knows he's careful with her, all too knowing, searching for her bodily clues. "Color?" he murmurs.
Her cheeks flush pink, and she knows she's lost, a complete goner for who stands before her. Her act of nonchalance shatters around her. Rylin's shoes are off now, his jacket slung somewhere around one of the kitchen chairs.
"Hmm?" Sora asks, teasing him. She presses all of his buttons in all the right ways.
He's a little unfocused, a little hazy around the edges as his index finger traces the curve of her mouth. "Asked you for your color, Sora Lee."
"Why?"
He shrugs, the motion fluid enough that she knows he has his balance at least for five more minutes. Sora places her palm around the hand held across her throat and intertwines their fingers, feeling the warmth from his presence and the alcohol as it thrums out in waves. She stands up, leaning against him as he, in turn, leans against the wall, hips pressed into her own. His skin is hot, nearly scalding.
Rylin cups her cheeks. He's so pretty it hurts. "You finish that paper?" he drawls, a smirk tugging at his lips.
She glares. "Just told you that, if you were listening."
He hums. "My smart girl," Rylin mutters, his gaze dropping to where her tongue peeks out as she speaks. Even drunk, he's still strong as his hands wrap around the smallest part of her waist. "Want to—want to kiss the shit out of you."
Sora blinks. "Now?"
He waves a hand in the air before setting it right back down on her body. "I'd prefer now," her smartass boyfriend says. "Unless you're gonna make me wait until morning?"
She looks down at the sticky note. "You're drunk as hell."
Rylin hums. "And I'm in a fully committed relationship," he tells her. "With you."
"I hate you."
He rolls his eyes. "No, you don't."
Sora rolls her eyes even more dramatically. "No, I don't," she agrees, and goes boneless as he whispers "C'mere" and draws her mouth to his. He does kiss the shit out of her, tongue swiping against the perimeter of her mouth in a way that's lovely, so seductive with his confidence. He holds her like a blessing, or maybe like a vice, and that's okay with her as long as he doesn't stop. Rylin groans into her mouth in his particular way, the sound that always makes her spine turn molten with desire pooling in her bones. He kisses her like he would do anything for her. He kisses her like he loves her with everything he knows.
She returns the kiss with equal fervor, gripping on his hair like she knows he likes. Sora bites his bottom lip, nips the corner of his mouth, and grins until they're both panting from exertion. Rylin's hands travel down her waist to her hips, jostling them to mold to his figure. His eyes are wild, but she thinks hers might be, too, as she stares at him from beneath her lashes. She could do this forever.
They break apart, just barely. Sora huffs and reaches up to tuck a tendril off of his hair behind his ear.
"Did you have fun?" she asks him, gentler than usual. Maybe it's because he's drunk out of his mind, but maybe it's because she did miss him after all, sitting alone on the couch even if she was working.
He leans down and misses her mouth once, but gets it right the next time. Rylin kisses her hard once, twice, then pulls back to look at her sleepily. "Drinks were more fun than the crowd," he laughs. "Clearly."
"Mm," Sora says, leading him to their bedroom.
"Y'look pretty," Rylin says, voice raw.
"Do I?" She shakes her head even though he can't see, shoving him through the doorway of their one-bedroom apartment and watching as he stumbles on their bed, knees spread wide and hands splayed behind him as he places his weight on both wrists. Her attraction to him springs to life.
"Like a princess," he tells her, the alcohol finally settling in his veins. Sora chokes on her spit and whirls to face him, chucking his sleep shirt at him and watching as he begins to take off his pants, boxer briefs coming into view.
"Can you stand for a shower?"
Rylin cracks open an eye and grins ruefully. "You comin' or what?"
Sora flips him off. But fifteen minutes later, she's drying them both off with their towels and placing toothpaste on his toothbrush at the sink.
Stupid, stupid matchmaker.
Stupid, stupid heart.
Later, they slide into bed. Or maybe it's more accurate for Sora to say that she rolled him into bed, tucking the covers beneath his chin and fluffing the pillow underneath his slightly damp hair. Rylin smells like his shampoo, like musk and laundry detergent and a faint whiff of mint from the mouthwash. Sora is small as she turns around to face him, and she finds he's already looking at her.
They've been dating for a while already, long enough to share their living space together. It had taken some time to get used to living with him, with the socks strewn across the floor and their combined load of laundry and the fact that their closet is pretty much fair game for her to wear at any given day. They'd fought, too. Oh, they fought plenty. Sora had gotten on his ass when he didn't let her know if he'd be coming home late so she didn't lose sleep, and he'd constantly reminded her to not overload her schedule so they could find quality time, too. It'd been a growing pain.
But he knows her. He really, really knows her. And he wants her despite everything she's put him through.
After all of this time, habits are essentially etched into his brain like an invisible tattoo, and Rylin just knows. Knows not to turn on the air conditioner too low or else she'll walk around with sniffles; he knows to turn on the coffee maker right after he brushes his teeth so it'll have enough time to warm up before she has to attend her first lecture; he knows not to put Sora's favorite tank top in the dryer or else it'll shrink; he knows to only turn one lamp on in their bedroom and not the other, because Sora gets headaches late at night if there's too much exposure.
God, she's in love. It's disgusting as shit.
And even now, he stares at her like he's seeing her for the first time. It might just be the alcohol. Sora scoffs, but leans over and kisses him soft and slow, hooking her arm around the nape of his neck and drawing him closer. His cotton shirt is thin enough that she can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, and it melts her to her core.
"Are you sobering up now?" she asks him.
Rylin nods. "Maybe," he says. "A bit. My hangover's going to be killer tomorrow."
"We'll get pancakes at the diner," she says, affection swelling. "You're paying, though."
He kisses the tip of her nose. "How chivalrous of you," Rylin mutters. "Missed you tonight, Ice Queen."
"Yeah?" Sora asks quietly, chest squeezing into something foreign. As bold as she is, as loud as she acts, she craves this reassurance from him. He's always so good at giving it. He's so good at patience as if it cost him nothing. "Even out with the guys?"
He snorts. "You smell better," he tells her, and she laughs with joy as he tugs her back and sticks his face in her neck, breathing her in. "Taste better," Rylin drawls, kissing her once before pulling back. "Feel better," he says, squeezing her waist before dropping to the backs of her thighs, rolling them around so she's on top of him.
Sora huffs even though her cheeks are on fire. "Don't tell me you've made out with your friends, Ry."
He blinks once, twice, and then bites the inside of his mouth in secret amusement. "Always so fuckin' smart with me," he complains, but there's no real bite to it. Not really.
"Yeah, well, you deserve it for being this drunk," she says, settling herself against his body. His chin tucks itself on top of her head, and she closes her eyes. Sora feels so safe.
It's silent for a minute before Rylin speaks again. "Sora," he tells her, his voice like sunlight. The way he says her name makes her feel revered.
"What?"
Rylin's words are made of honey. "I want to marry you someday."
Cold water metaphorically splashes over Sora's body, and she freezes, eyes snapping wide open as her heart thunders. "You—you're drunk," she tells him quickly. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Been thinkin' about it for so long, been thinkin' about you forever," he mumbles, stumbling over his words as he holds her tighter. "Would take your last name if you'd let me."
Sora laughs quietly. "Wouldn't I take your last name?"
Rylin pauses, and she's curious to know what he looks like, but she doesn't want to ruin the moment. Her heart thunders inside of her chest. "Would give it up for you," he says simply, and that's that. "You know I would."
She knows there's no room for conversation. What kind of conversation even is this?
She stays quiet and listens to see if his breathing evens out with sleep, but it doesn't. Sora looks up to see him watching her intently. Honestly. She doesn't know what to do with it, with him, even with herself.
I love you, she thinks. I love loving you.
But all she says in response is: "Prove it."
Rylin gives her a drunk grin, a kiss goodnight, and promptly passes out. She didn't drink, but it feels like she did, adrenaline running through her body like a race. And she thinks she'd be okay feeling like this forever, waking up to this man forever. She thinks she'd be more than okay with it.
Prove it, she'd said.
And prove it he does.