tequila and twenty questions

                                    

                                          
warning: this chapter contains alcohol and underage drinking. if that makes you uncomfortable, it will be over by the next chapter and you can skip this one.
you ate your French fries on the drive to the nearest bar as you hadn't really eaten at all today and were starving. I was going to save the burger for later tonight, but fuck I'm starving. I really need to take better care of myself. before you could even unwrap the burger, the car stopped and Michael snatched it out of your hands.
"what? why, dude!" you complain as Michael holds your food just out of reach. he laughs while you struggle, but instead of satisfying him with a big reaction, you give up and he hands the burger back to you.
"jerk." you grumble.
"aw come on, you love me." he taunts back. making you grin.
"nope, not anymore. I hate you, actually." you tease.
"well then if you hate me I suppose there's no point in me buying you drinks, darling." he coos at you.
"no, please fuel my alcoholic tendencies!" you response sarcastically and he laughs. the two of you get out of the car and head into the cozy-looking establishment.
even though it's a Wednesday, the bar is as crammed as a small town bar can get. the crowd is mostly middle aged men with receding hairlines, beer bellies and wives at home who don't love them, but there's a few customers your age scattered around. Michael pulls you to the bar and you take a seat at one of the tall metal stools. he sits next to you and immediately places his hand on your waist, though you can't tell if it's because he feels like he needs to protect you after what happened at the burger joint or if he just wants to be near you. I'm not complaining either way. maybe it's a combination of both of those. 
soon, the bartender comes over and you prepare to order your drinks. surprising to you, Michael buys an entire bottle of straight vodka, leaving you wanting to one up his alcoholism. this won't be worth the massive migraine I'll have tomorrow, you think as you order a bottle of tequila.
Michael gives you a judgey side eye for you choice.
"what? it tastes like home." you say and he shrugs.
"and where's home, exactly?" he asks.
"y'know. Texas." you respond vaguely and take a swig from the bottle. the taste burns your throat and reminds you what drinking feels like after not having any strong alcohol for almost a year.
"I knew you had some sort of southern accent. couldn't place it." Michael commented and took a shot from his bottle with a straight face. seriously, how does he do that? and is my accent seriously noticeable? I thought I sounded pretty normal...
"now that I think about it, I barely know anything about you." he states with a laugh.
"Alright, what do you want to know?" you ask, smirking. "nothing too personal just yet, wait until I'm drunk if you want honest answers."
"okay, what's your favorite color?" he asks with a stupid smile.
"nope, too personal!" he laughs and shakes his head.
"then I guess your going to have to start drinking, if getting you drunk is what I need to do to get to know you." now it's your turn to laugh, but you drink from the bottle anyway. the burning liquid goes down easier this time, and you take another shot of it.
"but seriously, you never talk about yourself." he says and brushes a strand of hair out of your face.
"well, okay. let's take turns asking each other things then. no lies." you say, and hold out your pinkie finger to make both of you promise to tell the truth. although it's a childish way to swear on something, Michael completes the pinkie promise and asks you the first question.
"why'd you move to Utah?"
"full school scholarship. I was scared of the Mormons, but the offer was too tempting." he chuckles. "are you a Mormon?"
"is that your question?" he asks in return, and you nod 'yes' while drinking again.
"no, I'm not Mormon." he simply states. "do you have a hot mom?" he asks the question with a smirk just as you drink again, his timing impeccable. it forces you to try not to choke on the burning drink, and he laughs as if it's the funniest joke ever.
"god what are you, 12 years old!? I don't think you should be allowed to drink if that's the case." you respond wittily, trying to regain composure. he shrugs, but keeps smirking as if satisfied by your annoyance.
"sometimes your British accent is more noticeable than other times." you say, mostly thinking out loud.
"yeah, I moved here from England when I was really young- maybe 6?- so I still kind of have the accent." he responds, and you're glad you've both moved on from his terrible jokes.
the conversation flows, and so does the alcohol. after just an hour at the bar you're feeling drunk and you haven't even finished the bottle.
"damn, you're lightweight!" Michael teases, and you grumble some witty comeback under your breath. him not being able to hear it kind of defeats the purpose, but oh well. you sigh and lean against Michael, and he takes the bottle out of your hands, much to your unhappiness.
"come on, let's get you home." he says with a smile, and you take his hand as he walks you back to his car. he takes both bottles with him but won't let you take either of them. instead, he passes you a water bottle and your food from the backseat and you happily eat.
"drink some water too, hangovers aren't fun." he says as he eats as well.
"I know that," you grumble and slowly drink from the plastic bottle. after a while of sitting in silence, Michael turns and faces you.
"you ready to leave?" he asks softly, his piercing grey eyes staring into yours.
"can you drive?" you ask, not being able to remember how much he drank.
he smirks. "yeah, I have a license."
you slap his arm and groan at his remark.
"that's not what I meant dummy. are you sober enough?" you ask, annoyed.
"yeah, I'm alright. I'm not sober, but I'm better than you." he says with a shrug. if you could think clearly, you probably would've made him call an Uber instead, but in your current state it hurt to think so you let him do whatever.
"well be fine, promise." he said and you nod in response. the ride home is quiet as you don't want to deal with the sound of the radio and Michael is too busy trying not to crash to speak much. that leaves you alone in the passenger seat with nothing but your thoughts. whatever's going on in your head isn't great company though, since you can't come up with a single coherent thought.
the drive soon ends and Michael allows you to lean on him for support as you two walk towards his house and he unlocks the door. once inside, you flop on the couch and he sits next to you with a chuckle.
"you're seriously drunk, huh? no offense darling, but you are a run-off-the-mill lightweight." you make a 'hmph' noise as a response and cross your arms as if mad at him. he only giggles at your act.
"fine, I'm lightweight. happy?" you quip and look over at him.
"extremely." he responds. an annoying yet alluring grin appears on his face and you lean towards him. I can't decide if I want to slap him or kiss him. instead of deciding, you do both. you slap his forearm lightly and he scoffs, but still wraps that arm around you.
"you've been awfully... painful tonight. I don't think I like lightweight drunk y/n." he teases. you huff again, but still smile at him before leaning in to kiss him. he let's you, but doesn't deepen the kiss at all. you pull away, disappointed.
"come on, not when you're drunk." he murmurs, and after a moment you nod, understanding. instead, you hobble up from the couch and go to the guest room he let you stay in yesterday and curl up under the blankets. Michael had followed you upstairs, and waves and says goodnight from the doorway before you pass out.
for some reason I originally made this take place in Washington (???) idk why. the story now takes place in Utah as it does canonically.
word count: 1347