A/N: For the anon who called me senpai.
Tiffany is feeling weak today. It’s barely past noon when she has her first sip of vodka. She relishes the kick and the burn, the way it takes over her body even if it’s just for the moment it takes to slink down her throat and settle in the darkest depths of her heart.
She wants to be drunk.
For days and nights, she has controlled. She stopped her thoughts, steered them away, replaced the images in her mind with others, because she needed to have that control, she needed to stay in one piece. She needed to breathe. But when it comes to being drunk, she doesn’t have to have any control. It takes the control away. She can feel lighter, and she can see Taeyeon right there, in all the places she used to be.
Vodka is good when it’s cold; when the glass is chilled, the liquid so icy it can bite Tiffany’s jugular between its teeth.
Every time she does this, sitting in her frozen house, a little more of her gets sapped away, trickling into the air. It goes to Taeyeon, wherever she is, because these are parts of Tiffany that belong to Taeyeon whether she wants it or not.
When Tiffany is drunk, she can feel Taeyeon’s lips on her again, as clear as the cut of the spirit in her mouth. Those lips, she doesn’t remember them as soft and light though they often were, but she remembers them as taught and strong, as if Taeyeon was pressing her entire self to Tiffany every time they kissed.
Those damn kisses.
She puts down the empty glass in her hand, and eyes the bottles behind it. Thick, heavy. Beer.
They used to drink champagne, some times for no reason, just fun, just happiness, just bubbles that could take them and carry them away together.
Tiffany was a social drinker, once upon a time for the longest time, so she goes to a place with a lot of people, orders a shot and a beer. And she steadfastly ignores the people writhing around her because she’s seeing Taeyeon again, next to her, hand on hers even as she reaches for a drink, and then she’s gone again, a wispy love.
“Hey, Tiffany, long time no see!”
She looks up to see someone she really hasn’t seen in a long time, to the point where she does not remember that person’s name. But while parts of her are gone, sent to Taeyeon, out of control, soaked in alcohol, there is still a part of her that lights up a flickering smile and says, “Hello, fancy running into you here.”
“It’s been ages since you were around here,” the person presses, gesturing an order to the bartender and leaning against the bar by Tiffany. “Heard you’ve been having a rough time.”
It was pretty rough, the cut in the core of her existence, a jagged river that ran dry. Tiffany shrugs. “I’m okay.”
The person nods, takes drinks. “You’re strong, eh? Well it’s nice to see you back in your natural habitat. Wanna come join us? We’re just over in the corner.”
Tiffany follows the glance and sees them, the people that she knows, but in the corner of her mind, Taeyeon tugs at her. She shows another smile at the person and says, “No thanks, I should be getting home.”
The person nods again. “Alright. See you around then, right?”
Right. Strong. Natural habitat. Social drinking. Drinking, drunk.
Tiffany is drunk.
She stumbles down a street – is it the right street? – and eyes the way her heels scrape over the pavement, which seems to be either really shiny or just wet from rain that has dissipated. Has it? Her cheeks feel wet. She reaches up, swipes at her face, looks at the smeared makeup on her fingers. Makeup.
She lowers her hands, and glimpses the bundles of bodies gathered around cigarettes. The flames of their lighters flick up into the air and singe the paper and tobacco. Tiffany remembers – can still feel – the way vodka burns her. It leaves scars in her, inside of her body.
Her hands are cold, so she stretches the fingers. She waves her arms around a bit – staggers but stays up – and her wrist bumps into a tall, cold pole. A street sign. This is the right street, after all.
Her grip stutters on the lock, handle, wood of her front door, but she manages to fall inside and practically melts into the couch.
She counts the number of times she’s talked to Taeyeon in the past two months. Friends, or not even that, and she even tried to shake her hand, what was she thinking. With every word they exchange, Tiffany sees the clarity that meets her at the bottom of every glass. She wants to be drunk.
She’s alone. In her cold house, her cold body can feel a little warmth, a little love, from the flow of vodka, beer, right through her, forming a shape that could be Taeyeon.
Tiffany wants to hold her again. She wants to have Taeyeon in her hands, her favourite heart beating with her own.
She closes her eyes, then opens them again and reaches for the nearest bottle. She doesn’t know what it is until it’s in her mouth, the blanketing feel of beer at room temperature, and then she squeezes her eyes shut and presses her face into the body of her couch.
She wants to be drunk when she wakes up. She will wake up, she keeps waking up, because she isn’t dead yet. Her pain hasn’t killed her. She isn’t stronger.
Tiffany is just alone, and she’s drunk.