Drunk Hearts

One More Drink, One More Cut

TW: talk of SH and alcohol

--

Stan is the happiest he's ever been. He has a good job, his grades are decent, he has amazing friends, and an amazing boyfriend. So why does he still feel so sad? Why does his brain always have to sabotage his thoughts every time something actually goes right?

"Stan?" Kyle's drowsy voice asked.

"Hm?" Stan replied, slowly coming back into reality.

"You okay? You were kinda zoning out."

Stan sighed. They had been laying on top of each other in Stan's bed, watching a movie. Now the credits were rolling, but Stan still hadn't spoken or moved.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he responded wearily, "just thinking."

Kyle popped his head up to look at Stan, "about what?"

"Nothing important," Stan forced a smile on his face.

Here he was, with his favorite person in his arms, and he was still sad. He didn't think he deserved any of this. It wasn't right. Why did Kyle like him so much? Nothing made sense.

Kyle could sense something was wrong, as Stan had that glazed look in his eyes that portrayed the thoughts in his head. As much as he tried not to, Stan wore his heart on his sleeve. Sure, he could maybe deceive others, but he could never fool Kyle.

"Talk to me," Kyle pleaded.

Stan tried to lighten the mood and get the attention away from himself, "just thinking about how lucky I am to be in the arms of the best person in the world."

It seemed to have worked, because Kyle's cheeks grew a deep shade of red as he buried his face back into Stan's chest. Stan one, Kyle zero.

Eventually, it was time for Kyle to leave. He was meeting up with Tolkien to study for an upcoming test. Stan could immediately feel the cold wash over him as the extra presence left, and now he was left alone with nothing but his thoughts.

He kept thinking back to his therapy appointment. He wasn't expecting it to get so intense on the first session. I guess it had to, she had to know why Stan was seeking help. He didn't really know what to say at first, but she kept prying. Asking about his family, his childhood. Then it moved to how his dad was an alcoholic and a stoner, barely acted as a father should. Stan admitted he had his first drink in the fourth grade, and let it slip that he feels like he's turning into his dad. The therapist pried more, making Stan relive everything he's tried so hard to forget.

"You have the power to change your path," the therapist had said to him, "you don't have to follow in your father's footsteps."

Those words ran through his head over and over again. Though, he didn't know if he really believed her. He has tried, he tried so hard to break the cycle, but he still finds himself pining for alcohol whenever he can. In a way, he can understand why his dad drank so much, and he hates to admit that. He hates the irony of getting drunk to forget about his dad being a drunk. He's no different.

Stan fought his urges, but he found himself getting antsy. His leg was bouncing and he was picking at his skin. He hadn't craved it for awhile, but he was craving it now nonetheless.

Maybe just one shot.

He got off his beat and went towards the closet. He cursed himself under his breath for smashing the last bottle he had. There had to be something somewhere. He made his way downstairs, thankful for being the only one in the house. He went into Kenny's section of the pantry, and pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose. He twisted the lid off and placed the opening to his lips, taking a large swig. The burn spread through his mouth and throat, and made his stomach warm. It was cynically comforting. He put the cap on and put the bottle back, knowing Kenny would probably notice if he drank any more. He just needed something in his system.

His face felt flush as he wondered back up the stairs and into his room. Not nearly enough to get him buzzed, let alone drunk, but the fact that he still had alcohol in his system made him feel better. He paced back and fourth around his room for awhile, itching for more. Sure, he could go to the liquor store and get some more, but if Kenny or Kyle found it they would be so disappointed in him. He needed something else to distract him.

No, he can't. Why was he doing this? His life is good. He has no right to feel like this. He could have it so much worse; he's weak, ungrateful, and invalid.

"Fuck!" Stan yelled to himself as he argued with the thoughts in his mind. He had an inner battle with himself, and he was losing.

He looked to his nightstand drawer, and let out a breath. Yeah, he was losing. Shakily, he opened it up, and spotted the shiny piece of metal that seemed to be calling his name.

__

Kyle and Tolkien were in the middle of going through a power point for their psychology class. This unit surrounded mental illness, which was kind of fitting. While reading the text on the screen, Kyle couldn't stop thinking about how much of this attributed to Stan. He got a sinking feeling in his gut, growing louder for every slide clicked.

"Hey Tolkien," Kyle interrupted the study, "I'll be right back."

"Okay," he replied, not taking his eyes off the text.

Kyle got up from his seat in the library, and walked outside. He pulled out his phone and dialed Stan's number. It rang for awhile, but he never picked up. Instead, it went to voicemail.

"Hey Stan, just calling to check up. I'll be home in about an hour, want me to pick up anything for us? Let me know. I miss you," Kyle recorded before hanging up.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach only got worse, but he chucked it off as his anxiety. He shot Stan a quick text, saying more or less the same thing, and went back inside to finish studying.

"You good?" Tolkien asked, seeing Kyle's demeanor shift.

"Just some anxiety," Kyle responded.

Tolkien's expression turned to one of sympathy, "wanna wrap this up? I think we got a lot done and I have some shopping to do."

Kyle nodded, "yeah, I think we are good to go. Thanks for studying with me."

"Anytime!" Tolkien packed his things and waved Kyle off.

A wave of relief shot through Kyle as he could finally go home and ease his worries. He's usually good about keeping his anxiety in check, but sometimes he still gets overwhelmed. He let his thoughts race as he got into his car, visions of coming home to seeing Stan unmoving on the ground. His heartrate skyrocketed, noticing Stan never texted or called back. He knew he was probably busy, or asleep, but he couldn't get the image of finding Stan unconscious for whatever reason out of his head.

--

Words: 1171