You, with the bloody knuckles, angry and wound up like you were set to burst.
Me, blue balls, and bluer, hypothermic, balls.
It’s Marco who leans over to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, “That’s Eren, you should talk to him.” He says it with a smile that dimples both cheeks, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d funneled vodka down Jean’s throat like it was going out of style, he could be mistaken for the picture of angelic innocence.
As it is, he’s funneled vodka down Jean’s throat. As it is, Jean’s spent the better part of two and a half years in love with him, wasting his lit major on truly terrible poetry about longing and unrequited love. Not that he thought it was terrible. His professor told him that.
“Nah,” he says instead, glancing quickly over at Eren – eyebrows knitted, frowning, fingers clasped around a dart – “I’m here for you, babe,” he winks, and it feels less stupid than it is because Marco laughs and because he has half a bottle of hard liquor sloshing around in his stomach.
Regrets, like hangovers, are saved for morning afters.