1.3 | the art of cupidity ✓ - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

NEEDLESS TO SAY, SORA LEE GETS ABSOLUTELY WASTED AFTER RYLIN KISSES HER. She heads straight to the bar as soon as he confronts Adrian and explains his plot with Sora, pouring herself six clear shots which she downs in the span of ten minutes. She tends to eat before consuming alcohol, but it doesn't help the fact that she's a lightweight (it's quite embarrassing, in fact).
People stay out of her way and let her drink as much as she wants, and Sora knocks them back one after another until she's dancing with some stranger and complimenting all of the girls in the bathroom (yes, she's that person) a bit obnoxiously. Because she doesn't really want to look at Rylin Carter's pretty face and his cute little beauty mark near his eye, and she certainly doesn't want to remember the sensation of kissing him as his hands gripped the curve of her body, fingertips pressing into her hip.
"Goddamn," a few boys remark passingly as they look at her dancing—she's actually a wonderful dancer, and only when she's completely drunk because then she won't be self-conscious of the way she moves her legs. And just as another person reaches out to pull her in the crowd, Rylin grabs her first.
"And what," he whispers dangerously, "do you think you're doing?"
Sora turns around, grins, and cages his beautiful face within her hands. "I'm dancing, Ry!"
He stills and raises a brow at the sudden nickname but doesn't say much of it. "I can see that," he mutters, and Sora rolls her hips against his for emphasis. Rylin lets out a stuttered breath and sighs before pulling her out and into a close corner, arms steady and features secluded. "We're leaving."
"You're—you're being mean," Sora mutters dejectedly, and she complies gently as Rylin takes her chin in his hands and tilts it upwards to check her pupils. "Sora Lee," he drawls, "you're really fucking drunk, you know that?"
"Yes!" Sora throws her hands up in the air and laughs before spinning in a wobbly circle. "Yes, I know I'm drunk. That's why—that's why I drank so many shoots."
Rylin sighs. "You mean shots?"
A giggle. "Yes," Sora laughs. "Shoots."
"Shots."
"Shoots?"
"Forget it." He lets out a frustrated sound, but Rylin's face softens when he takes in her innocent, hazy expression. "You're awfully cute when you're drunk, Ice Queen," he tells her gently. "You're even prettier when you smile like that."
Sora gasps. "You think I'm pretty?"
A pause. "Do you typically remember things when you're intoxicated?"
She shakes her head dramatically from side to side, and he laughs softly. "Never," she admits. "Sora won't remember anything."
"Then yes—I think you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen," Rylin tells her. "You're even prettier than me, and I've never said that statement in my entire life."
She gulps, and her eyes shine when she looks at him. "I—thought you hated me," Sora tells him, and a tear slips out. "So mean to me, Carter. So. Mean."
"We literally just kissed, genius."
A giggle. "Oh."
He sighs and leads her out of the room, sending Adrian and a couple of other guys goodbye waves as they both leave the party. Sora's a drunken mess, and she scratches her fresh mosquito bites as he pushes (shoves) her in the car. She's babbling just a bit, the words barely under her breath, and she becomes fascinated at how silver the door handle is. Because it's really silver.
Silver. That's a cool word.
The car ride is relatively quiet: it's mostly filled with her soft snores as she travels in and out of her dreams, and Rylin casts her quick looks over the shoulder just to see if she's alright. Her hair is messy and her dress is riding up on her thigh, and he feels an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness for the girl in his passenger seat. She's an innocent, wild thing—a girl who sees the world with fire in her irises and sunflowers surrounding her heart. A little clumsy and brash, but nothing that a few seductive lines from his part won't fix.
And she's so gorgeous that it's a miracle that he doesn't stop talking altogether whenever they interact. The kiss—the kiss was devastating, he recalls. She was devastating, and he feels like sweet and sour victory whenever they're together. Rylin Carter always tells himself that he doesn't need anybody else except for himself, but now—now that he's gotten to know her, he can't lie anymore.
Sora Lee likes her part-time job at the local diner. She tutors people if they ask for it while also maintaining a side matchmaking business to bring in some extra crash, and it keeps her busy. His Ice Queen loves to skate and hog the rink (much like himself), and she's an expert on using her long, slim legs to flash some extra skin when she knows he's watching. And he's never not watching, Rylin realizes as his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He's always aware of her.
"I can't take you to your dorms like this, or else you'll get taken to the police station," Rylin tells her, even though it's no use: she's passed out for now, mouth slightly parted and milky skin flushed a delicate pearl-pink. Sneakily, Rylin takes a quick picture of her disheveled state as payback, but it doesn't really work because she still looks endearing.
Sora reaches out and hooks her pinky through his before resting it on the middle seat. "M'kay," she whispers. "S-stay with me."
He releases a shaky breath and pulls into his apartment complex; Rylin gets out of the car and gently—so, so carefully, as if he's afraid of breaking her—settles her over his shoulder and stands up to carry her to the elevator. When Sora looks like a porcelain doll, it's hard to forget that she looks delicate; her hair resembles black ink spilled out like a tempting fan, and her skin is smooth against his heated touch.
When Rylin opens his apartment door and rolls his eyes at her incoherent mumbling, he clicks on the lights (much to her dismay) and sets her down on the couch before heading towards his bedroom to take out a cotton shirt and the tiniest pair of sweatpants he can find. He settles for his favorite vintage tee from a concert he went to during his freshman year of high school (it's too small for him now, but he keeps it as a token) and an old pair of joggers at the bottom of his drawer and laughs a bit at the fact that Sora Lee is actually fucking drunk on his sofa. The irony.
"Hey," he calls out, and when he gets to the living room, the girl is already trying to wiggle out of her dress by sliding it up her thighs, and she flashes him a bit of red underwear before he sighs and restrains her arms at her sides. "Can you change by yourself or do you need me to help you?"
Sora looks him at and laughs sleepily instead, leaning against his arm for stability. "Guess not," Rylin mutters under his breath. "Okay, baby," he whispers, and leans down. "I'm going to unzip your dress now, alright?"
"D-don't look," she breathes out, and collapses against him, body like molten jelly.
He pauses. "I won't." And he doesn't—not when the black fabric hits the floor, and certainly not when he turns away and pulls the shirt over her head. It's backwards, but it'll have to do. Rylin turns away and sets the pair of joggers on the floor, and he feels something like soft hesitation lining his voice, which is odd because he's never actually been reduced to meager bits and pieces of a blushing, lost boy. "Step," Rylin orders her, and she does. He tries not to think about the sensation of the bare skin of her legs against his thumb as he pulls the pants up to her waist and ties it as tight as the drawstrings will allow. Even then, she has enough wiggle room to breathe and move comfortably without being caught up. Rylin leans down and rolls up the cuffs three times before looking up at her sleepy grin, and he's reminded of how they first met: him, on his knees, and hiding a secret smile as she scoffed at him.
He had felt her watching him through the plastic screen of the ice rink. Had felt it, and had liked it. Liked it so much that his original plan fell to pieces and rearranged itself to involve her, and he was convinced there was no other solution.
"Alright," Rylin murmurs, and stands back up with his eyes still trained on her. "You feel okay, Ice Queen?"
Sora shakes her head, and a bit of concern pierces his heart. "What's wrong?"
"M'bra," she complains, clumsily toying with the straps underneath the shirt she's now wearing. "Un-uncomfortable. Want it—off."
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling and tilts his head back, wondering how bad of a person he must've been in his previous life for his current form to suffer through this. "No," he tells her. "You're keeping it on, okay? I—I'm not taking that off of you."
Maybe one day, Rylin thinks, and then mentally slaps himself upside down on the head.
Sora glares at him, and it feels as if the girl he knows is back to yell at him even when she's wasted. "Unclip from the back, a-and then I'll do the rest." A cute hiccup sounds from her mouth. "Idiot."
It takes a minute, but Rylin successfully unclips the white undergarment and watches as she shimmies out of it underneath his shirt and it drops to the ground. Girls really have a trick for every goddamn thing, he ponders.
"You're helpless."
Another hiccup. "And you're Satan."
And although he doesn't have an extra toothbrush, Rylin makes her swirl mouthwash around for thirty seconds before he lets her spit it back out into the sink, watching the mint-green liquid drain before she rinses her mouth with water (with his help). It's amazing how Sora doesn't throw up the contents of her stomach, and he realizes that she might puke in the morning, so he places some towels on the hardwood floor next to his bed just in case.
Just in case she decides to stay.
Rylin lays Sora down on his mattress and doesn't linger on the fact that she looks stunningly ethereal against the backdrop of his grey duvet. And when he's successfully finished wrapping her body under the fabric, a hand darts out and hangs onto his pinky finger (she must like doing that), stopping him right in his tracks.
"Sora? You alright?"
She nods. "Hmm," the girl hums, and he sits on the foot of the bed, head surprisingly clear after tending to her. "Call me that," she pauses, "again."
He knows exactly what it means, but Rylin's still an asshole, so he won't say it until she begs. "Call you what?"
A whine. "You know what."
"I need you to ask nicely," he smirks, still playing the role of a smooth sadist.
Sora cracks open one eye and glares at him. "Baby," she finally breathes out. "Call me baby." The low murmur of her voice is enough for him to catch his breath, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.
There it is. "You looked so pretty tonight, baby," Rylin tells her, and she makes a small sound. "But you look even prettier in my clothes."
"And in your—in your bed?"
He grins, lips like the edge of a wielded knife. "Especially in my bed."
She looks like a goddess in his sheets, and he feels a surge of something swirl through his veins and settle in his fingertips as he brushes a bit of hair out of her eyes.
"You were version number two today," she tells him softly.
This is new information to his ears, and Rylin perks up in interest. "There are different versions of me?"
Sora nods adorably, and she looks so goddamn perfect that he feels like nothing will ever compare. "Three versions," she admits. "You—you were number two today."
"And what version is that?"
She smiles, and the curve of her mouth is lined with sweet poetry and glistening glitter. "The version where you protect me," Sora mutters. "You're a prince—my prince."
And he's far from royalty—everybody knows this except drunk Sora, apparently—and Rylin runs a hand through his hair and raises a brow. "We'll talk more about these versions when you're sober," he tells her, and she snuggles even deeper into his pillow. "You have to promise me something, though," Rylin says.
"Hmm?"
"Promise me you won't get drunk when I'm not there," he tells her, a desperate tone underlining his words like a heated current. To have someone try to take advantage of her in this unpredictable state—no. He won't allow it. Would never allow it.
"Promise," Sora confirms after a moment, and he relaxes. "Talk to me until—I fall asleep."
And he does. Rylin tells her of his childhood (his birth mother had an opioid addiction and passed out in the street), and he took his uncle's last name to cut off any and all connections he held with his past. He doesn't drink or experiment with drugs considering that he's prone to becoming a crackhead himself, and Rylin tells her of how much he likes to read in his free time. He tells her of how he panicked when he first ran over a squirrel the first time he went out driving and he whispers secrets of how much he likes playing ice hockey when his sweat turns cold and his legs burn; he lets her know that he doesn't like orange juice and instead prefers his water with lemon in it; his favorite color is grey, but now it might be the soft flush of her cheeks as her chest rises and falls.
And then, when she falls asleep, he whispers, "I think I might really like you, Sora Lee. My Ice Queen."
Rylin walks out before he can hear the words, but Sora whispers, "Me too," before she finally passes out.
"Holy fucking shit."
Sora takes in her surroundings, the time (five in the morning), her pounding headache, and the unfamiliar environment and clothing on her body. She needs to leave.
It's concerning that she doesn't really remember the unfolding events from yesterday, but she doesn't think much of it—the memories will come back later in the day, like it always does. And so Sora tip toes to the living room, sees a sleeping Rylin Carter with messed up hair and a bit of bare stomach revealed due to a messed-up shirt, and stops in her tracks a bit.
He looks like young art—the kind where it's framed and preserved in heated glass, because everyone in the world deserves to see it. But she doesn't want anybody else to look at him like this: vulnerable, soft, handsome. She wants to keep him all to herself.
But then Sora remembers that she has to leave to save herself the further embarrassment and picks up her bra with a burning face, grabs her heels in the other hand, and closes the door shut with a muted click.
Goodbye, Rylin Carter, she thinks. You'll always be my favorite target.
The memories come back to her the next day after downing half a bottle of Advil and a few melatonin gummies, and Sora can barely function without thinking of the feeling of his lips on hers, hot and heavy and breathy.
What was I thinking? Sora mourns, and then: I'm never getting drunk again. Drunk Sora is dangerous. Drunk Sora is clingy.
She had hoped that last night was an exception, but once the puzzle pieces fit, Sora is now well aware of her childish behavior.
"I messed up, Claire," she cries after getting back after a long shift. "I really, really messed up."
Her friend runs a hand through her hair to comfort. "You mean you messed up when you made out with him in front of everyone, or you messed up when you asked him to take your bra off?"
Sora groans into her pillow and spends the rest of Saturday and the entirety of Sunday cooped up in her dorm, cutting off contact from everyone except Adeena, Claire, her parents, and Jonah.
She doesn't even look at the application of other future clients.
Because somehow, within a short period of time, Sora's heart no longer dedicates itself to her matchmaking business, but rather to a boy with messy hair and a beauty mark and hands so pretty it makes her want to cry.
And if this is what falling in love feels like, the pounding headache is the least of her worries.