It was your birthday so scaramouche, your best friend since elementary, decided to surprise you with some alcohol. It was your 21st birthday after all.

The two of you sat on your living room floor, your head on his shoulder and his head resting on yours. His face was flushed from the straight vodka he drank moments before.

“Do you think we’d make a nice couple?” He slurred, his eyes droopy and heavy. The question was so sudden, he didn’t even realize he had asked it.