Kind of Unpleasant~

She felt awful. Undeniably so, she realized as she placed her aching head against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat. And she was alone, having lost Nigel and Rachel sometime before she was this inebriated, in an unfamiliar house. Her stomach heaved, threateningly to eject the night's activities. She panicked, reasoning with herself not to puke. I won't ever drink again, I'll yell less, I'll be nicer to people. But, her body was on some sort of catharsis related mission and these promises were futile.

Her unkempt red hair stuck to her face with the stuff and she silently cursed herself for not thinking to pull it back. As soon as she thought this, she felt two large, rough hands at her neck, pulling the sticky hair away from her face. Twisting her hair with one hand, expertly, the other hand moved to her back in an attempt to soothe the girl who was bent over the toilet.

When she was through she collapsed against the floor, not noticing to whom the hands belonged for a few moments. Her forest green eyes widened with surprise and then narrowed with anger. "What do you think you're doing here, Drilovsky?" She stood shakily on drunken feet. The girl attempted to push him away at the chest, but all that vodka lemonade (So good, she thought. Wait…no. Bad) impaired her perception at least a little. She hit the muscular boy square in the nose with the heel of her hand.

The boy doubled over in pain. "Damn it, Fanny. What are you trying to pull? I just helped you and this is how you repay me?" he complained.

Suddenly, the girl remembered the pair of hands against her neck. They felt so nice. So cool against her burning flesh. Her hands shook, flustered and confused by her realization. A look of concern passed over his handsome face. He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. "Just, come here and sit with me, OK?"

She stared at the hand that was frozen, extended towards her. The girl shook her head, making the dirty hair stick to her face again. "No. I think I'd rather go home," she replied, nodding.

The boy slid down the wall of the bathroom, knees bent against a built chest. "You're drunk." He said this simply. As if she was the type of girl who accepted simple answers.

"I'm not drunk." The words ran one into the other, forming one indistinguishable sound.

She was drunk. And she knew it too, somewhere underneath all the stubbornness and pride. Honestly, she just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of being right. And, in the dingy light of the bathroom, well…she found that he looked kind of beautiful, which was a unwelcome and sort of terrifying thought. The girl wanted to go and sit next to the boy.

The black haired boy stood up and grabbed a freckled hand in each of his. "C'mon, Fanny. At least let me take you home then."

She didn't object as he led her out of the bathroom. Her vision was going in and out a little. Sleep. She wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. She stumbled as they walked and Patton wrapped a thick arm around her thin waist. In the back of her mind (the only place where she was allowed to think such things), she found herself wondering if people thought they were together. If they thought Patton Drilovsky was leaving a party with a plastered Fanny Fulbright because he loved her or cared about her. Not because of some instinctual obligation or pity.

"Fulbright," he started, throwing her into the passenger seat of his Jeep with little care, "how'd you even get this messed up? What'd you drink?"

Her full, pink lips opened, as if she were about to answer his questions. But, a yawn escaped her mouth and her brilliant green eyes fluttered. "Alright, you're out," he commented, more to himself than the girl.

He turned the keys in the ignition as her fire red head hit the window with a dull thud. A snore sounded from the sleeping girl and he snorted lightly, not really surprised that she was a snorer.

Absentmindedly, he drove the familiar path to her house. They were friends after all. Kind of. Sometimes, she was just so vile. And stubborn. And proud. And everything that annoyed him in a person. These things annoyed him because was that way, too. But, at least he wasn't afraid. At least he knew, somewhere outside the back of his mind, that what he felt for the snoring, red-headed, loaded pistol of a girl sleeping in the seat next to him was something bigger than kind-of-friendship.

Because for all the time she was vile; there was just as much that she wasn't so bad. And, sure, he had seen her stomp those God-forsaken boots too, too many times, but, sometimes, she let other have their way. Pride? Well, pride wasn't always such a bad thing anyway.

And, he had to admit, she wore the drunken look like a hopped-up, starving celebrity, but she was still kind of beautiful or something.

If someone had asked why he was leaving the party with a plastered Fanny Fulbright, he wouldn't have known what to say. These reasons were so little, so miniscule, compared to all the bigger, crazier things that most people knew about the girl, and he found himself not wanting to share them with anyone else.

The car stalled in the driveway of her house and he felt compelled to shake her awake and share this new revelation with her. But as she snored loudly he remembered that she was drunk and tired and, most of the time, she was actually pretty vile.

A/N: Don't ask me where this came from because I couldn't tell you. I usually don't like writing about couples that aren't canon (however, 1/362 is an exception because I just love them so unbelievably much). So yeah, I don't know. The ending is kind of blah. I like the beginning alot though.