It hurt to wake up on a bus with a hangover. Alcohol was cruel. It was that friend you let in at 2 A.M. who insisted that they had nowhere else to go, and they said smoke with me, and you said we should be asleep, and they said it was okay to indulge every once in awhile. Called you a buzzkill. Of course you give in. And it's a good time, smoking something your lungs won't thank you for with someone who shouldn't be there at a time you should definitely be asleep instead of getting to know some carcinogens and half-hearted conversation. Alcohol was that friend who pretended to need you but took a fifty from your wallet when you finally drifted off and slipped out the door with no explanation. Alcohol gave you a good time and then fucked you over just in time for you to wake up.
It hurt to wake up on a bus with a hangover and the man you loved in the bunk across from you, knowing that he most definitely was not dreaming of you and you will most definitely not be the first thought he has when he wakes up and he most definitely will cut you off while you're talking to him because his girlfriend is calling. The day after burned for Mike. It burned a hole in his head and his heart; it dropped him from heights too meager to kill him, but just tall enough to break every bone that made contact with the ground. Tony could see Mike's skin bubbling at the center of his chest. He could see through his throat to the water trapped in his windpipe. He could see Mike trying not to drown. He considered it a personal problem.
The day after hurt Mike's head and heart.
The next one, his head was fine.
