MISFITS IMAGINES

STUPID | ZUCKLES

——TABLE OF CONTENTS——

summary: You come home to the shared home of the Misfits only to find Mason passed out on the couch—drunk words are sober thoughts, and oh brother you're an ASSHOLE!!!!

warnings: alcoholism, angst, language, mild violence

SFW | ANGST
UNEDITED

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You slowly slipped off the canvas shoes that clung to your feet and felt the cold wooden floor even through your socks, the feeling easing your aching feet.

You had been using the Misfits office—typically used for the groups podcast—as your own streaming office to separate your work life from home life. And while it was comforting, it was becoming tedious on late streaming nights coming home long after the sun had gone.

You hung your keys next to everyone else's, your hand lingering for a moment as you noticed Mason's keys missing from the hook. You turned your phone screen to flash the time, thinking maybe it wasn't as late as you had thought: 2:15 A.M. hmph.

Your head quickly snapped to the shuffling in the living room, followed by soft snores. Each step creaking as you made your way over to see the culprit, only being eased with the sight of Mason sitting upright on the sectional with his head slumped. Only a few more steps until you saw the full picture: Mason sat soundly asleep, a bottle of whatever foul liquid he could find at the corner store for cheap. His keys thrown on the couch next to him, and you took a mental note on why he loses them so much.

Careful not to wake the sleeping boy, you slipped the bottle from his loose grasp and grabbed his keys from the cushion next to him. He stirred, still holding his original position and you were sure to halt your actions as to not wake him.

You made your way through the dark house, using the moonlight to the extent you could but quickly losing your footing and banging your hip on the corner of the kitchen island.

"Fuck-" you hissed, quick to hunch over the counter in pain. A stir of movements in the living room behind you coming shortly after. "Mason?"

     A few groggy mumbles came from the dark room in return, assuring you it was just his drunk self gaining consciousness. You could just barely make out the silhouette of him stumbling to sit up, broad shoulders and head laid low.

     Another low grumble coming from him slightly louder, "Where's my fucking ciggies...?" His thick accent lacing through every word.

     After several attempts at flicking his lighter with nothing but sparks coming out, his frustration got the better of him as he launched the lighter and unlit cigarette across the house. His sudden movements causing you to flinch, scared of the next outburst from his inebriated mind. He threw his head back onto the couch, his eyes focusing on every square inch of the ceiling—too afraid to look you in the eyes.

     It didn't take you much time at all to recognize the state he was in: eyes glossy enough to be seen in just the moonlight shining through the window, his body tensing with every shaky breath. He was more than faded in his own sadness and cheap liquor.