#drunkenness

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You started small. Nancy favoured earthy tones, so you traded your bright blouses for muted greens and browns. She wore her hair in a particular half-up style, so you practiced in front of the mirror until your hands ached, trying to replicate the effortless cascade. Steve noticed the new clothes, usually with a casual, "Hey, that's a nice shirt, looks good on you," or a bewildered, "Did you do something different with your hair? Looks... neat." He never said “It reminds me of Nancy,” but the silence stretched, and in your mind, it screamed it.

You started reading the books Nancy liked, even the ones that bored you stiff. You even tried to cultivate an interest in journalism, though your notes from current events were always a disorganised mess compared to her meticulous ones. You’d bring up topics about politics or social issues, hoping to engage Steve in the kind of deep conversations you imagined he had with Nancy. He’d usually just nod, offering a generic, "Huh, yeah, that's messed up," before changing the subject to a new band or a particularly gnarly monster from a horror movie. You’d force a smile, the knot in your stomach tightening, pushing down the rising tide of insecurity. It had to be enough. You had to be enough.

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One Saturday night, the air thick with the promise of summer, you found yourself at a party at Tina’s house. The music was too loud, the punch suspiciously strong, and the dancing was a clumsy tangle of limbs and laughter. You’d initially started the night feeling confident in your new, slightly-too-serious outfit – a long, dark skirt and a conservative blouse, something Nancy might wear to a study group. Steve had wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his warmth a temporary balm against the chill of your self-doubt.

But as the night wore on, and the plastic cups of punch kept refilling, the carefully constructed facade began to crack. The laughter of others started to sound like mockery. Every time Steve’s eyes flickered across the room, you imagined they landed on Nancy, who was, of course, there, chatting animatedly with Jonathan. She looked effortlessly chic in a simple denim jacket and a band tee, her hair falling perfectly.

"Another one?" Steve asked, watching you drain your third cup of punch. You nodded, feeling a strange lightness in your limbs. "Why not? It’s… good." "You usually stick to like, one beer," he commented, but didn't press. He was too busy being Steve, holding court with a group of younger kids who obviously idolized him.

The alcohol gnawed at your control, that carefully maintained repression you’d mastered. You felt a wave of nausea, then a strange, exhilarating defiance. You hated this music. You hated the scratchy fabric of your blouse. You hated the way your feet ached in these stupid shoes. It was all Nancy. Every single thing.

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You found Steve again later, leaning against a wall, a half-empty cup in his hand, a lazy smile on his face as he listened to Dustin recount some elaborate D&D story. You stumbled a little, grabbing his arm.

"Steve," you slurred, the word feeling thick and foreign on your tongue. He turned, his smile softening. "Hey, you okay? You look a little... wobbly." "I'm fine!" you insisted, louder than necessary. You pulled him away from the wall, away from the noise, towards a quieter corner near the kitchen. Your voice dropped, becoming a fierce whisper. "I hate this party. I hate this music. And you know what else I hate?"

Steve frowned, his brow furrowing with concern. "Whoa, hey, what's going on? You always said you liked this kind of stuff. You just said you loved this new band Robin showed you, and you were all excited about this blouse last week, said it was super comfy."

A bitter, unhinged giggle escaped you. "No! No, I didn’t! I hated it! I hate this blouse! It’s scratchy and it makes me feel like I’m suffocating instead of just suffocating inside my own skin! And the music? It's just… bland. Generic. Like everything else I've been doing lately." Your voice was rising again, the words tumbling out in a furious, drunken rush. "I hate reading about politics! I hate journalism! I hate these stupid shoes that pinch my toes! I hate… I hate pretending!"

Steve looked genuinely bewildered, his eyes wide. "Pretending? What are you talking about? I thought you were really getting into all this stuff. You seem so… invested."

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and stinging, blurring his face. The dam had burst, and there was no stopping the flood. "No! God, no, Steve! I don’t! I just… I just did it. I did it because Nancy did it. Because she likes those things! Because she wears these kinds of clothes and she talks about those things and she’s smart and she’s pretty and she’s enough! And I thought… I thought if I was more like her, then maybe… maybe you’d actually look at me the way you look at her. Maybe you’d actually want me the way you want her!"

The last words were a sob, raw and desperate, ripping from your throat. Steve’s face, which had been confused, slowly drained of color. His jaw went slack, and his eyes, usually so vibrant, seemed to dim, a flicker of something terrible passing through them. It was a look of pure, unadulterated heartbreak.

"I just… it's still not enough, is it?" you whispered, the drunken bravado gone, replaced by profound despair. You slumped against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, your face buried in your hands. "What will make me enough? Tell me, Steve! What do I have to do to be enough for you?"

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The noise of the party faded into a distant hum. Steve knelt in front of you, his hands hovering, unsure how to touch you. His mind raced, a sickening kaleidoscope of memories and realizations. Nancy. Always Nancy. He had looked at her, hadn't he? A quick glance, a brief memory, a fleeting moment of what had been. He’d never meant for it to mean anything, not really. Not anymore.

But hearing your words, seeing your raw pain, it was like a punch to the gut. The truth, ugly and undeniable, hit him with the force of a freight train. He hadn’t been hung up on Nancy because he was still in love with her. God, no. He was hung up on her because she was the first to break up with him. She had been the one to walk away, to decide he wasn’t enough. It had fractured his ego, shattered the carefully constructed facade of King Steve, and the lingering glances, the moments of nostalgia, they had been nothing more than a desperate attempt to soothe a wounded pride, to reclaim a piece of what he’d lost, even if it was just in his own mind.

He never wanted her back, not really. Not the way he loved you. He loved your laugh, your fierce loyalty, the way your eyes sparkled when you were genuinely excited about something. He loved the way you’d challenge him, the way you didn’t take his shit, and the way you made him feel like he was more than just the dumb jock with the good hair. You made him feel good. You made him feel loved. And he had been so blind, so utterly self-absorbed in his own petty hang-ups, that he had let you believe you weren’t enough. He had let you hurt.

The realization was a sickening wave of guilt. He loved you. He loved you more passionately, more deeply, more truly than he had ever loved Nancy. Nancy was a ghost, a memory, a scar on his pride. You were here, real, vibrant, and utterly broken because of him.

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He gently pulled your hands away from your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears that streamed down your cheeks. Your eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but they held so much pain.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Hey, look at me."

You met his gaze, still crying, a fresh wave of sobs racking your body.

"Come on," he said, pulling you up gently. "Let's get you out of here."

He led you out of the party, ignoring the curious stares. He helped you into his car, the silence between you heavy with unspoken agony. He drove slowly, carefully, back to your house. Once there, he didn't just drop you off. He helped you inside, his hand steady at your back.

"Come on," he murmured, guiding you towards your bedroom. He didn't say anything, just helped you shed your uncomfortable clothes, pulling out an old, soft t-shirt and sweatpants you usually wore to bed. He even helped you wash your face, the cool water a small comfort.

Then, without a word, he pulled back your covers and gently ushered you into bed, climbing in beside you. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close, pressing your head against his chest. His heartbeat was a steady rhythm against your ear, and you clung to him, your tears soaking his shirt. He held you like that for what felt like hours, stroking your hair, murmuring soft, indistinct reassurances until exhaustion and the lingering effects of the alcohol finally dragged you into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

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The next morning, the sunlight filtered through your curtains, a stark contrast to the emotional torment of the night before. You woke to the feeling of Steve’s arm still wrapped around you, his breath warm against your neck. The memory of your drunken confession, of your raw, unfiltered pain, came crashing back, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You tensed, trying to subtly pull away.

"Hey," Steve’s voice was soft, rough with sleep. He tightened his hold just a fraction, keeping you pressed against him. "Don't go anywhere."

You lay still, your heart pounding. What was he going to say? Was this it? Was he going to admit you were right, that he really did want Nancy, and this was an easy way out?

He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, looking down at you. His eyes were serious, no trace of his usual playful charm. "About last night," he began, and you braced yourself. "You were right to be upset. You were right to feel that way. And I am so, so sorry."

You searched his face, unsure if you dared to hope. "Steve…"

"No, let me talk," he interrupted gently. He took a deep breath. "Last night… what you said… it hit me like a ton of bricks. I’ve been such an idiot. A complete, self-absorbed, prideful idiot." He looked away for a moment, then back at you. "Nancy and I… what we had, it was a long time ago. And when she broke up with me, it hurt. It hurt my ego, man. A lot. I was King Steve, and she was the first one to say I wasn't enough. And I think… I think a part of me, a really stupid, immature part of me, just wanted to prove something. To myself. That I could still… I don't know, have her attention, maybe? Make her regret it?"

He shook his head, a look of profound shame on his face. "But that's all it was. It was never about loving her. Not anymore. It was about my stupid pride, about soothing my own ego. And I was so blind, so caught up in my own crap, that I didn't see what it was doing to you. I didn't see that it was hurting you." He reached out, cupping your cheek gently. "And watching you break last night, watching you think that you had to change who you are, to be someone else to be 'enough' for me… it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Because you are more than enough. You are everything."

His thumb stroked your skin, and a tear escaped your eye, but this one was different. It was a tear of relief, of a fragile hope taking root.

"I love you," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "I love you. Not some version of you that thinks she needs to be someone else. I love your wild laugh, the way you hum off-key when you're doing chores, the way you argue with me about stupid movies, the way you make me feel like I can actually be a good person for once. I love you. And that would be more than enough. It would be everything."

He swallowed hard. "I know I messed up. I know I was an ass for making you feel that way. But can you… can you give me another chance? Another chance to prove that all I want is you, exactly as you are?"

You looked at him, at the genuine remorse in his eyes, the naked vulnerability on his face. The love you felt for him, which had been buried under layers of insecurity, surged forward, overwhelming any lingering doubt. You knew, with absolute certainty, that you would give him a million chances. You would give him every chance he ever asked for.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears. "Yes, Steve. I love you."

A relieved sigh escaped him, and he pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair. "Thank you," he murmured against your temple. "Thank you so much."

When he finally pulled back, a soft, determined smile was on his face. "Okay. Good. So. First order of business." He tapped your nose playfully. "We're going shopping."

You frowned, confused. "Shopping? For what?"

"For your clothes," he said, a gleam in his eye. "The ones you actually like. The ones that make you feel like you. Not some imitation of someone else. We're gonna find every bright, obnoxious, comfortable, ridiculous thing you love. Because that," he said, kissing your forehead softly, "is what I want to see you in. Always."

your hand nudged the goblet towards geta, tipping it ever so slowly to his lips until a bright maroon dusted across the pink expansion.

“try it— you’ll like it my liege I swear it!”

Geta only scoffed, his cheeks red with drunken clumsiness.

“get that away from me, wife. I’d rather drink poison than to sip on such a disgrace of wine.”

you pouted instantly, already drunk yourself, the sweet wine wafted off your figure like a cheap oil. “pretty please, husband? it’s got all the flavors you like,”

listing them off slowly, your other hand began its decent up his arm and finding passage massaging his shoulder. Geta, ever soft for your hands couldn’t help but relax in such a comforting hold.

“cherries, a hint of cinnamon—“

gods you smelled divine.

so sweet, so alluring to the man that he could sweep you off your feet right then and there.

“did I say grapes? it has honey too, just the right amount—

“wife,” the emperor shuddered. your fingernails found their way up his chest, lightly circling and smoothing their way across it as you were lost in thought, too busy naming of ingredients instead of paying attention to the now flustered lord.

“wife!” Geta interrupted, seizing your moving hand with his own ringed one.

fearing you did something wrong, your posture instantly froze; rigid and stiff.

‘calmly, you fool.’ Geta’s thoughts rang out, his grip lightened and with a feathery touch made its way to the jawline just in front of him.

clenched and tightened with stressful thinking.

“I… apologize, little wife,” he finally gritted out. you were so beautiful tonight. it’s as if the stars molded across your eyes and lit up the expansion of your pupils with untold dreams and conquests.

He wanted to drown in them.

“im tired, hm?”

your lip wobbled before a look of surprise took over the reddened and messy features you displayed.

“of course, my emperor! how could I be so silly?”

getting up off the man’s lap, you felt a tug upon the material of your robe.

it was light, but firm enough for you to turn your neck back around with a slow uneasiness and to the emperor once more.

he laid comfortably against the seat, sagging into it while his legs spread with enough of a widened expansion for your body to mold into.

his arm, the one that wasn’t connected to your delicate robes— sat against the ginger hairs littering his head, with his fingers pushed against the pale temple, making his upper body lean to the side.

he looked relaxed. happy, one might say.

“you will return with me, won’t you, wife?” although it sounded like a question, you knew it wasn’t.

even in your drunken state, the man’s stature—his temper is a trait you won’t easily forget.

so instead of having one more glass, like you had intentions of doing, you nodded in agreement.

it’s all geta needed to hear, or rather, see before clumsily gathering himself out of the throne.

instantly, the party goers raised, bowing their head completely before the man could demand them of it.

usually, the emperor would make a show of this. mumble on about how well trained they are, how obedient.

“their more like animals,” he would scoff, laughing vehemently while tugging you along. possessive fingers grazing your waist with the cool feeling of the rings brushing against any revealing skin.

such a touch brought you back to the present, cold and calculated against the backside of your dress.

following your husbands bounding steps, you avoided the looks that were thrown your way. it wasn’t wise to get drunk in front of so many people, you knew it wasn’t.

but geta had insisted.

“we’re winning the war, dearest.” he had all but giggled, pouring heaps of wine into your (once) empty goblet.

“I ordered it special for you, drink up before Caracalla gets to it, hm?”

you had peered into the drink with newfound interest. a little smile entered your face and pushed against your cheeks. such a sight almost made the emperor flustered—he’d blame it on the wine, most definitely.

it was indeed a light red, the color of the sweet wine you always loved to sip on. upon closer inspection, the smell made its way up and into your senses.

what was a few drinks? you had thought. And with a quick note of appreciation to your husband, the goblet had graced your lips.

who knew it would bring you here, barely holding yourself up against geta as you both made way for the chambers?

his left palm spread out easily against your back. with a firm hold he took lead, guiding you through the stone walls and to the bed that was calling his name.

his other hand braced against the rough wall to the side—just in case he needed to push against it.

“husband?” he heard you call out, with a low drawled out hum, geta responded.

“thank you for the wine.” your sweet voice spoke so low.. so softly against the muffled laughter and voices that spilled out of the throne room.

his fingers came up to the back of your neck, seizing it with a loving grip before his lips crashed upon the top of your head.

he had aimed for your cheek, but this will do.

“anything for you, lovely.” geta purred against the softened locks, already his arms snuck their way under your buttocks, groping and touching the flesh there.

the guards had to move a bit behind, just beside the corner of the wall to avoid any further groping and kissing that was being displayed.

it was turning out to be a sweet night indeed.