𝐘eah, this is the part where you always regret the second round of shots.

Alcohol has never been your strong suit, Graham knows this better than anyone. Ever since the pair of you were in your late teens and you were dragging him to house parties so you could get drunk and dance to whatever shitty music the record player was playing.

It always ended with him holding back your hair as you puked your guts out and you embarrassingly admiring that he was right and you might just be a lightweight.

Still, he doesn’t think he’ll live to see the day where you ever let that stop you.

You embraced the LA musician lifestyle of drugs, sex and hangovers with arms spread out and a pep in your step. When you weren’t writing songs for Billy to reject and you weren’t belting out notes Graham didn’t think were possible for a human to hit, you and him were on the bathroom floor.

Camila’s decorations of the room had not helped your hatred of the situation in anyway. The only thing that aided you in your pathetic state was the pink fluffy rug that Warren had bought one time when he was high. All of the seashells she had a fondness for collecting and tapestries the houses previous owners had forgotten about made your stomach churn in ways you didn’t know it could.

Graham kneeled beside you, a cup of water in a glass covered in sad attempts at seahorses. Still you take it, thanking him for giving you a chance at relief.

His eyes burned into every crevice of your face, memorizing it like always. The small specks of glitter that hadn’t peeled of yet, the prices of hair that fell out of place from the rest but still made you glow even more, you were a mess but you were his mess.