"Is that my shirt?" + Mickey
“Bender”
Warnings: alcohol and drug abuse. 18+
In hindsight, you probably shouldn't have let Mickey chase the valium down with a six pack of beer and a bottle of Svedka, but you weren't exactly sober yourself. He had disappeared halfway into the concert and vomited through an entire set list in a grimy port-a-potty. But he caught a second wind on your way back to the car and managed to give you a piggy-back ride halfway across the fairground before you remembered you were parked on the other side.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, okay," he said as you struggled to hang onto him.
"Take me hoooome," you whined in his ear.
Mickey set you on your feet and tapped at his lower lip, muttering, "Think, think, think, think, think, think, think," as though it would help.
And then you were in the backseat of a car being driven by a couple of lesbian rocker chicks who were more than happy to give you two a ride home in exchange for the last of Mickey's coke. You didn't remember how you made it up the two flights of stairs to your apartment or what possessed you to dress one of the big stuffed bears Mickey bought you last Valentine's day in your bra and set it on top of the television, but that was the first thing that swam into view when you opened your eyes later.
You were laying on the couch, completely topless, and you could hear Mickey's panicked swearing from the bathroom. You heaved yourself up and wobbled to the door on rubber legs, grabbing the doorframe for support. Mickey was sprawled on the tile floor in his boxer shorts, and the whole bathroom seemed to be flooded from his attempt to cool himself off with the detachable showerhead without actually stepping into the tub. Now he was trying to sop up the water with a tiny pink crop top.
"Is that my shirt?" you asked.
"No," he said a little too insistently, realizing that maybe he should've been using a towel to mop up the mess rather than his girlfriend's laundry. "This... this is my shirt." As if to emphasize his point, he held the wet garment up to his chest. Screen printed cherries hovered over each of his hairy nipples.
You grabbed the edge of the sink as a fit of giggles seized you. Mickey decided to double down. "What? It's my shirt, babe!" he said. It took a few steadying breaths before you could speak again.
"Then why don't you put it on?" you managed to say. Mickey didn't even hesitate. He tried to pull the shirt on and quickly got his arms stuck straight above his head with the shirt smothering his face, unable to pull it down far enough to find the hole for his head. The wet fabric clung to his skin and his shoulders were way too broad for the petite cut.
"Babe!" he cried. "Babe, I'm stuck!"
You couldn't help it. You erupted with laughter even as you dropped to your knees on the wet bathroom floor, trying to get a purchase on the shirt as he kept flailing.
"Hold still, baby," you said in between bursts of giggles.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh," he groaned, and you knew he was primed to vomit again at any moment.
"Don't you dare throw up on my shirt, you drunk idiot!" You yanked the shirt off him with such force you went flying into the bathtub, landing with your legs dangling over the side.
"False alarm," Mickey said with a hearty belch. He pushed himself up and leaned against the bathtub, giving you a sheepish look. You worried your tongue piercing as you took in the mess on the floor and the state of the two of you.
"We gotta get sober, baby," you said, stretching out your hand to push a wet lock of hair off his forehead.
Mickey sighed softly, the mirth draining from his eyes. "I know."
