Seifer was still unsure as to how exactly it had happened. In fact, the only evidence was the sore redness of his bottom lip, and the questionable marks on his neck. Recalling the events of the previous night, decided it would be easy to blame it on the whiskey. Whiskey does things like that to people; makes them do things that no person in their right mind would normally do; makes them maybe kiss people that they have no business kissing. It was plausible, considering the ridiculous amount he had apparently ingested the night before, as evident from his hangover, which was clearly sent by the devil (or the corner of the coffee table, off of which he hit his head after waking up on the floor). It was perfectly plausible that the whiskey bottle had magically come to life, held a gun do his head and said �do it, dammit!� He seriously considered calling the distributor and filing a complaint, demanding that all alcohol-makers label their bottles with warnings that read �CAUTION: May cause undesired attraction to chickens and/or other poultry-like things.�
Of course, it would be entirely too easy, entirely too suspicious, to blame the entire event on one bottle of cheap convenient-store whiskey (although he knew deep down that the moment Zell awoke from his drool puddle on Seifer�s living room floor, he would be blaming everything on the whiskey). He also knew that the inappropriate amount of friendly laughter and drunken dancing would eventually be blamed on the whiskey, as would the obviously misinterpreted sidelong glances from Zell and Seifer�s own miserably failed attempts at romantic banter. Wait, romantic? No, drunken. Intoxicated. He was drunk; entirely too blitz to have possibly enjoyed a single moment of the encounter (though suspiciously not too blitzed to forget any of it).
Yes, that was it. No sweat. He�d simply blame it all on the whiskey. It was that easy. The idea of his escape brought a remarkable feeling of relief over him, so much that his splitting headache faded almost instantly. He would blame the whiskey for the hickey that had quickly made its presence known on the side of his neck, and for that unbelievable regrettable kiss. And the momentary laps in control of his tongue. And the fact that, although Seifer likes to limit his kisses to three minutes or less as a general rule, this one lasted for ten, maybe twenty. And the truly discomforting fluttery feeling in his chest when he glanced back down at Zell, who was blowing snot bubbles in his sleep.
With a triumphant smile, Seifer sauntered into his kitchen, confident that any and all evidence would be hidden behind a clearly believable excuse. All the fault would rest on that one mischievous glass bottle. However, upon opening the refrigerator, he was surprised to find the bottle in question still there.
It was still full; unopened.
"Shit."