AH collections

Blame

Jeremwood
Word count: 1757
Chapters: 1

Seven shots in, he started to notice the drunkenness that the energy drink chasers had hidden from his system.

Fourteen shots in, a pleasant, fuzzy warmth had settled in his head and over his whole body, sponging up his thoughts and feelings.

Over twenty shots in, a vague voice in the back of his head said that his liver was probably fucked , but there wasn't much else besides that. Not much else he could remember, anyway.

When early morning light seared Jeremy's vision as he cracked open crusted shut eyelids, everything came back at once. A wave of debilitating nausea washed over him, and he stumbled out of bed and to his bathroom, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet bowl with a heave.

"Fuck," he gasped, tears pricking his eyes, rolling down to mix with the mucus and bile burning through his nostrils and forcing its way up his throat. Jeremy gagged again and hung his head, forcing himself to get all the vomit out of his system. The stench of liquor and acidic saliva didn't seem so bad compared to the headache pounding in the back of Jeremy's head. The only thing his body was concerned with was getting all of it out, out, out .

With the last of the alcohol expelled from Jeremy's system, his ragged breaths began to even. He wiped his face down with a wad of toilet paper, throwing it in the bowl before closing it and flushing. The sink crossed his mind for only a split second before he decided against it, instead stripping off his clothes and stepping into the shower. The shock of cold water was unpleasant at first, but his body soon adjusted to the temperature and his head began to clear.

It was pathetic, really. One of the worst days Jeremy's had in a long time, and what does he do? Fucking goes home and drinks. Because apparently it wasn't enough to be pissed off, too pissed off to try to relax with his friends, no. He couldn't just go home and take a Nyquil and pass the fuck out. He had to get blackout drunk like a totally reasonable and functioning adult would do, right? All without a word to his crew that probably had equally bad situations, but hadn't thrown a shitty tantrum over it.

Clear water sped towards the drain. Water. He didn't even drink water because he wanted to get stupidly, dangerously drunk last night. Jeremy slammed his fist against the tile wall of the shower, holding back at the last second because god knew he didn't need to break even more shit.

The annoying brrrrrinnggg of Jeremy's doorbell snapped his attention back to the present, and he wanted to scream. Why the fuck did he have a visitor this early? It must've been no later than 6 AM, based on the sun just rising outside his window. He shut the water on the shower and toweled himself dry hastily.

"Coming!" he shouted hoarsely. He threw open his dresser and pulled on an acceptable pair of boxers, sweatpants, and a ratty old tank top. Whatever.

Jeremy pulled open the door abruptly, expecting to have to civilly decline some go-getting political campaigner's stickers and pamphlets. Instead, his eyes met a solid chest and slid up to greet a familiar face fraught with concern.

"Ryan?" Jeremy said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat and ran a hand nervously over his head. "What are you doing here?"

It startled Jeremy when Ryan stepped forward abruptly, grabbing Jeremy's arms and pulling them up suddenly. Blue eyes roamed over Jeremy's body, which would normally have flustered the man, but it seemed more like Ryan was examining Jeremy, like a doctor would to a patient.

"You're okay?" Ryan asked, his voice strained. He stepped back and placed his hands on Jeremy's shoulders. A feeling of unease settled in the pit of his stomach, and he nodded.