Logically, he should’ve known that attending an after party following a footie game was unreasonable. Furthermore, getting absolutely shitfaced was an even poorer decision on his part. Any choice made after that was far beyond his control — or at least, that was the notion he continually repeated, reluctant to accept the hefty list of consequences subsequent to his unadvised actions. So, as he tossed up the remnants of cheap alcohol and bad decisions into the toilet, there was nothing but a disregard of guilt or remorse for the girl fast asleep in the bed on the other side of the door. Or rather, he didn’t want to feel guilty. Or maybe the pounding headache and bright lights of the bathroom were enough of a binding distraction, forcing his mind to think of nothing besides the agonizingly relentless pounding against his skull.

With a strained groan, he clambered to his feet, flushing his sick away, praying it’d wash away and quell the rest of the brutal symptoms. A precarious step had him haphazardly preventing a fall by weakly gripping the bathroom counter, letting the tile and ceramic support the majority of his weight as he drowned his mouth in water, rinsing the bitter lingering taste of alcohol and vomit. Wiping the excess water from around his lips, he regrouped into a semi-decent state, admittedly still seeming as though he was gruesomely dragged through hell and back.

Standing on weakened legs, he trudged from the bathroom, squinting as sunlight flashed his eyes through the open curtain. He paused in the threshold between the bathroom and bedroom, stopping to stare at your form sat up in bed.

Surely, he had learned your name at some point, right?

"Morning," he greeted halfheartedly, voice painfully scratching his throat from the previous emptying of his stomach. He hovered in the bathroom doorway before finally crossing the line, stepping into the room.

He swiped his jeans from their previously strewn position on the floor, likely where they had been thrown in some drunken haze. Tugging them on, he fumbled for the belt while simultaneously trying to slip his shoes on, every movement rushed as though it’d kill him to stay too long and breathe in the toxic gas of regret.

Mumbling incoherence under his breath, he searched the floor for his shirt before his eyes settled on you, watching the fabric of his shirt dangle on the edge your shoulder. Any other occasion, he might’ve been enticed, tempted to stay, catch your number or maybe even stay for a quickie. Now, it just seemed like an aggravating inconvenience, forcing him to stay trapped with… seriously, what was your name again?

"Could I have that back, love?" he requested, faux saccharin and innocence lacing his tone.