Wayward (Stenbrough)

Chapter Three

The next morning came rudely. It banged and clanged inside both of their heads, dripped coldly off their backs, and stung boldly behind their eyes.

"Ugh... fuck," Stan managed, failing to evade the sun lancing through the thin curtains.

Bill mumbled a response, before throwing the spread down from his body, standing up much too quickly.

"What are you doing?" Stan complained.

"You have to get u-u-u-up q-q-quick. We alreh-ready feel luh-like shit; if you w-w-wuh-wait any longer, you wuh-won't get out of b-b-b-bed."

"Ohh... fuck this..." Stan mumbled, rolling curtly from his side of the bed.

Bill dressed quickly, staying true to his sentiment of getting things done whilst hungover. He filled the motel room's pitifully small plastic cups with water, handing one over to Stan.

"S-start with this, and tuh-take a h-h-h-ot shower. It'll help with your h-h-huh-headache."

"Thanks," Stan muttered, rubbing his eyes. He took the cup, draining it in a single, swift gulp.

"Huh-here's mine," Bill said, handing him another. "Now go g-get washed u-up.  Y-y-you smell luh-like booze."

Stan waved over his shoulder, making his way into the bathroom. Bill busied himself with packing, putting away what little they had actually used the previous day. Bill plucked a change of clothes from his belongings, folding them up neatly for Stan. He laid out both riding jackets and their helmets before sitting patiently on the bed. The water clunked off. A few minutes later Stan popped his head from behind the bathroom door. His curls had straightened out in the water.

"Uh, Bill?"

"Y-yes?"

"I don't have any clothes..." He stammered awkwardly, looking down through red cheeks.

Bill smiled at his sheepishness, "Here you guh-go, dummy," Bill said, tossing the bundle of fresh clothes at him.

"Thanks," Stan responded, quickly shutting himself back in.

Stan emerged a few minutes later, wearing Bill's borrowed clothes. Stan had rolled up the bottoms of Bill's dark jeans, seeing as how Bill was a good bit taller than him. The shirt Bill had tossed to Stan was short on him, and fit Stan surprisingly well.

"I feel like a scarecrow in your clothes," Stan said, looking over his outfit.

"Don't worry, y-y-you luh-look fine," Bill said, standing up. He pushed Stan's helmet into his hands. "Ready for breakfast?"

--

"Carbohydrates are y-y-your friend. And wuh-w-water," Bill said, opening his menu. Dim light flashed across the laminated "Alan's Eatery."  Stan sat across from him, head in his hands, rubbing back and forth slowly. He breathed deliberately and squinted his eyes from the shaded lamp above them.

"It's way too bright in here," Stan said suddenly, shifting in a vain attempt at comfort.

"Wuh-we're in the d-d-darkest corner," Bill responded.

Stan only shook his head, frustrated.

"You're not o-o-one to dr...d-drink so mu-much, are you?" Bill asked, smug suspicion creeping into his voice.

Stan sighed, "How could you tell?"

"As much a-a-a-as you don't wuh-want to, drink up," Bill said, pushing a glass of water across the table. "I know a d-d-d-decent ha-hangover cure br-br-breakfast, so I'll order for y-you."