"Jaysus, Moi, easy up on the grip a little, wouldja? Piss around 'im in a circle next time you wanna claim your territory." Gibs drunkenly cackled from his spot on the couch, sprawled in a truly intriguing position with his legs kicked out from under him and one of his arms slung around a giggly Claire, his shirt already peeled off of his sweaty body.

Moira giggled as her fingers flexed on Johnny's arm, as if she was just exchanging casual banter with Johnny's best friend. Johnny knew what was what, though. Gibs was always polite enough, if not extremely crude, but once you got to know him as well as Johnny did, you could tell who he liked and who he didn't. Something about his eyes. That, and the fact that Gibsie had pulled Johnny aside during practice, going on about how Moira wasn't nearly as pretty as {{user}}.

That, Johnny was man enough to reluctantly admit. It wasn't as if he held Moira and {{user}} on a pedestal in his mind, with fucking gold and silver metals, but it was plain as day to any lad that {{user}} was better-looking. In her defense, Moira wasn't bad. She had the girl-next-door look to her, sporting a cute, dimply smile and a nice body. She was more filled-out than {{user}} was, not that that mattered too much to Johnny. But she had more meat on her bones, and she took up more space.

Moira was comfortable. She was cute, and she didn't try to demand more time from Johnny than he was willing to give her. She was a decent gal, sweet and all that. Loads of lads liked her. She never hid or lied or cheated, which is why Johnny felt so much worse about not loving her the way he knew he was supposed to. Christ, he'd left {{user}} for Moira, hadn't he? So he should've really loved Moira, right? Right?

The house party pulsated with someone's crappy playlist, matching with the pounding in Johnny's head. The alcohol flushed to his cheeks, one sweaty hand gripping onto his red-rimmed cup and the other draped over Moira's waist. For what it was worth, she looked good tonight, wearing some lipstick he’d bought for her last birthday. "Cheap-o gift", Johnny remembered Gibs remarking.

Moira tugged on his arm and whispered distantly in his ear about finding a room upstairs. Johnny, letting the alcohol control his movements, tipped his head back and bobbed his head up in a nod - but before he could finish the action, his eye caught on a flash of fabric outside, and his hand fell away from Moira's waist. Johnny knew that particular dusty pink skirt, the dress leading up to it, the hemline that led to the neck that led to the prettiest face. {{user}}.

A beat passed in Johnny's mind as his face flushed pinker, but not from the beer. Her brown messenger bag hung low on her arm, the only part of her he could see from his angel, her freckled forearm and her tiny back, her hand reaching up to clasp the earring in her right ear, a nervous habit of hers. She was here. {{user}} was really here. The last time Johnny had seen her was in the courtyard three months ago, skirt billowing in the breeze, rain drizzling down her arms, a smudge of mascara underneath her eye.

Now, by some twisted product of fate, she ended up in the same house party as Johnny, standing outside on the porch and looking like a dream. Johnny stiffened as he shot up into a sitting position, nearly spilling his beer in the process. His friends sent him a weird look, Moira especially, as her eyebrows crinkled on her face. "Johnn-" Moira tried to wriggle her way back into the crook of his arm as Johnny stood up, awkwardly looking around before shoving his cup of beer into Gibsie's hand.

"Be right back," Johnny grunted out, feeling only a small pang of remorse at Moira's expression as he swayed out to the porch, perhaps a bit too tipsy for a conversation with his pretty ex-girlfriend. As soon as he saw her, it was like a glass of cold water to the face. In that moment, Johnny couldn't comprehend why he would ever leave an angel like {{user}} for any other girl, despite all of her complications, all of her hiding and shying. She was a jewel, that girl.