Lightweight

Epilogue

“Never speak to me again.” Upon the first voice that hadn't come in through the one earbud he’s had in for several hours, Rowan whips around to meet not eyes, but the hands covering them. He hadn't properly noticed Will was awake for some time, evidently.
“I didn't say anything.”
“Consider it a preliminary measure.” Rowan can’t help but scoff at this as he takes to swiveling back around to face whatever YouTube Autoplay’s switched his video to, head resting lazily in one hand in what is likely the universal symbol of deep seated neutral boredom. It's another five minutes or so before another word passes between them.
“Rowan, I can't feel my mouth.”
“That's probably to be expected.”
“How would you know?”
“It’s what this thing’s saying. Really fucking dry, right?”
“Exactly that.” He pushes the chair off to the side in order to put the monitor in full view of the page he'd pulled up mere moments ago, some thread written by a lot of people agreeing that hangovers suck. Judging off what he's skimming through, he feels sort of  bad for his dear friend across the room.
“Do you have an article pulled up?” He hasn’t looked back at him, but he’d naturally assumed Will had made an attempt to glance over his shoulder.
“Yeah, and it doesn’t say anything about suddenly going blind.” A beat’s pause passes between them before Will speaks again, voice reaching an almost frightening quiet, just about shaking away the grogginess in it completely.
“I’d rather not put up with light on top of your shouting, what with the current feeling in my skull being likely reminiscent of a lobotomy without anesthetic. Now if you’d please, Li. Just read what it says aloud.” He pauses for a moment to take a breath, without hesitation adding a
“Quietly, if it’s not a problem.” He skims the page again, mentally highlighting sections that’d probably be relevant.
“Did you eat or drink anything that wasn’t booze last night?” His voice is practically a whisper.
“No?”
“Then it’s probably a hundred times worse than it would’ve been.”
“Fantastic.” He continues on.
“Nausea and vomiting is the most common one. Also headaches and like, anxiety I guess?” He’s only reading what’s written.
“That sounds about right.” Rowan takes this moment to properly give Will a once-over. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes screwed shut against the light of the bedroom. His hair is a disaster, curling in odd places and sticking up in others, and as with similar observations from last night, Will is inhumanly pale as a whole. The freckles over his nose stick out like beauty marks, if that’s a sensible comparison to make. He’s pushed his entire weight onto his arms in order to retain a semblance of stability. Without another word he stands, whatever color that was left in his face draining entirely as he exhales slowly, shakily. The pressure on his arms is only more evident as he presses both hands firmly where he’d just been sitting, chest rising and falling without rhythm.
“I want to take a shower.”
“Don’t die.” Rowan’s dismissal seems to frustrate him, causing him to pause halfway there.
“This is your fault anyway, don’t give me this right now.” He can’t help but brighten at this, smugness practically seeping through his pores.
“I told you you’d do this shit!” Wll sets him with a glare that works in place of words, though he half stumbles the rest of the way to the attached bathroom without another word.