FicWad

Sydney is drunk. Lauren is not.

Lauren thinks about killing Sydney. Doesn't.

Sydney's eyes are shinning, off-focus. She looks vulnerable, young--pathetic, Lauren thinks--and cups Sydney's too-warm cheeks in her hands. Sydney's lips are red and wet and blurred where her lipstick has worn away. Sydney is breathing unevenly, mouth open.

Tomorrow, Lauren thinks, tomorrow this will be all about Michael. Tomorrow, this moment will be a weapon; a sliver of guilt hate despair in Sydney's heart. Tomorrow, Lauren thinks, is very far away--and she is kissing Sydney's right now.

Sydney groans, and leans (collapses) into Lauren's arms. Sydney's lips are still parted, and her hands are fisted in the collar of Lauren's blouse. The kiss is wet, messy, and more enthusiastic than Lauren had expected--

(she hadn't thought about kissing Sydney, really. If she had, Lauren might have imagined that Sydney would be stiff, appalled--cold and distant and resistant until Lauren worked her tongue between her lips, fingers between her thighs and broke Sydney to pieces)

--and Lauren will be irritated by being outplayed later.

Tomorrow.



For thenewhope's drabble-a-thon. Theme: alcohol.