AN: A small, angsty vignette, written to combat insomnia, and to try and get some anger out of my system. Fortunately this isn't anything I've experienced, but I can so relate to the ending. Anyway.
Charlotte raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"So what you're telling me is that you're not drunk?"
Madonna giggled childishly, clumsily trying to reach for Charlotte. Charlotte moved away, retreating into their shared room. Madonna frowned, her lips curling into a well-practised pout.
"Lotte, what are you doing? I thought you liked snuggles."
Lotte closed her eyes, she knew that a drunk, therefore persistent Madonna was difficult to put off once there was something she wanted to do.
"Yeah, I like … snuggles." Her face twisted into an almost-grimace, the girl was deemed rather tough, and it wasn't done for her to utter anything that sounded 'fluffy'. Aside from that, she understood exactly what Madonna meant when she said, "Snuggles", and it certainly wasn't anything she wanted to deny herself. But they'd established rules in their relationship(if it could even be called that – it was more a series of meetings, mostly starting with a drink or two, and more than usually ending in one of their beds), one of which involved no contact if one of them was drunk. If they were both a little tipsy, then that was a different matter. But-
"I like spending time with you," Charlotte forced the words out through clenched teeth, giving her speech an unusual nasal quality. "But I know that while you're drunk, it doesn't mean anything, and you don't remember much – if anything – in the morning."
While charlotte had been speaking, Madonna's drink induced happiness had quietly and surreptitiously slipped away, leaving a small, confused – but still angry – girl in its place.
"What?" The girl stepped forward, and had they not been in conflict, she would have fitted perfectly under Charlotte's chin. The older girl stepped back, not meeting her girlfriend's eyes with a scowl slowly setting into place on her face, distorting her features, rearranging them from her normal smirk-smile. One could almost say she was pretty, even. With her long red hair, and almond eyes. It wasn't something she'd admitted, or come close to acknowledging, but a trace of something – happiness? Smugness? Confused surprise? – flittered across her face for a second if it was commented by any bohemian.
"I thought – ugh. Well, maybe one of the guys'll be okay with it. For Christ's sake, refusing to sleep with someone just because they're – maybe they've drunk a little bit! God, Charlotte, sometimes I don't even know why I put up with you! I don't really like you that much anyway, but you're okay in bed. But whatever."
And with that statement, if slightly slurred, Madonna turned and half ran back down the corridor.
Charlotte turned into her room, huddled under the covers, and sobbed herself to sleep.
A luxury the toughest girl shouldn't have.