Crenny Week 2021

Sick Party, Man

Similar to yesterday's fic, I've based this off of UK university dorms, where everyone gets their own little boxy room to themselves. But this is is still set in America and stuff. Also we have kettles here as well so I've added that too. Do you guys have that? I don't know.

Okay anyway enjoy! :)

-

"Holy shit, dude, look at this!"

"Fuck. What's happened to him?"

"I don't know, Stan! Nothing good, obviously."

"Is he still breathing?"

"I think so. He looks sort of... asleep?"

"Sleep's supposed to be, like, blissful, Kyle. Does it look like he's in bliss to you?"

"No. He kind of looks like he's dying."

At first, Kenny thinks that maybe he is dying, or that maybe he's already dead. But then he realises that the bright lights aren't from the pearly gates of heaven, or the brimstone fires of hell, but from a shitty disco ball strung haphazardly overhead. He blinks, struggling to get his eyes to focus, and finds two heads hovering just inches from his face. He lets out a groan of surprise and covers his eyes with his hands.

"Oh, dude! He's totally alive!" one of the heads says.

To Kenny, the sound of the two guys' high-five seems abnormally, agonisingly intense. Everything is abnormally, agonisingly intense. The lights. The music. The way those two guys are peering at him.

"What do you want?" Kenny rasps, hauling himself upright. He tugs his hood back over his head as he looks around, and realises that he's sitting on the floor. I should stand up, he thinks, but doesn't. He's not entirely sure he has the strength to.

"Are you okay, man?" the dark haired one says. "You look pretty rough."

Kenny looks pretty rough because he feels pretty rough. Freezing cold and shivering, his head is pounding to the rhythm of this shitty house music. "I'm fine," he says, but the hoarseness in his voice betrays him.

"Do you need us to call an ambulance?" the ginger guy asks. Kyle, Kenny assumes, because that's what it says on his t-shirt, embroidered in little white cursive on the breast pocket. Which means the other guy must be Stan.

"No!" Kenny says. "No, fuck, don't do that."

"Have you got alcohol poisoning?" Kyle asks, then turns to Stan. "My mom warned me about this, dude. If you drink too much you can literally die."

"I do not have alcohol poisoning," Kenny says coldly. "But thank you for your concern."

"So then why do you look like death warmed over?"

"I'm just... tired," he says, unconvincingly. "I was having a rest."

"I think we should get Craig," Stan says. "He's a med student. He'll know what to do."

"I don't need anyone to do anything!" Kenny says, then dissolves into coughing. When he looks up again, Kyle is gone, and Stan has sat down next to him on the sofa, shifting his weight nervously.

"Please don't actually die," he says. "This is my first dorm party. It would be a real bummer for someone to die so soon."

"Bummer," Kenny echoes. "I wouldn't want to bring down the mood." He reaches for his bottle of beer. Stan eyes it like it might be laced with arsenic.

"Should sick people drink?"

Kenny sniffs. "I'm not sick." He cringes at how his voice sounds, that awkward, audibly stuffiness that rounds all of his m's into b's, and n's and t's into d's. I'b dod sick. Embarrassing.