@-TIREDBLUEBOY | 𝗺𝗼𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗲 - a style fanfiction

³』Headache

(Stan's POV)

Oh God, ugh...

My head hurts so, so fucking bad right now, man. I feel like total shit.

I drag myself out of bed, falling face-first onto the ground.

Jesus, how much did I drink at Bebe's party? Holy shit. But it's okay, a migraine is the perfect way to start off the day. My fucking favorite thing, ever.

I try to recollect any information about what happened yesterday, applying light pressure to the bridge of my nose with my index finger and thumb.

So I was at Bebe's party because Kenny (of course it'd be the fuckboy that is Kenny who managed to talk me into this bullshit somehow) told me it was going to be sweet. We were playing Truth or Dare and Wendy got asked...ugh, some shit about our relationship, I'm blanking. She...something happened, and then she pulled me to the side and told me it just couldn't work.

I got wasted and depressed, I was loudly and shamelessly sobbing on the frigid tiles of the bathroom floor, Kyle was there to console me as per usual and now I'm fucking hungover. I probably told him to pick me up like I always do, and he probably had to deal with me being fucking depressed again.

I'm surprised he hasn't just cut me off entirely. The dude's stuck with me even when he shouldn't have. I mean, if I were him I would've cut contact, I'm such a fucking mess and a pain in the ass to deal with.

Why am I such a dick? Why am I so goddamn selfish? I'm nothing.

"Stan? You okay?" I hear, startling me. I almost forgot I was in Kyle's room. I rub my eyes and nod groggily. God, I literally feel like shit today. Like, imagine you were shit out, dried up, and are now being reheated in a microwave. That's what I feel like. Right now. No better way to describe it.

"Ugh...I'm fine, what time is i-" I stop myself mid-sentence, noticing how worn out he looks. The auburnette rested his head on the desk, surrounded by piles of papers and a computer with an open word document. "Holy shit dude, are YOU okay? You look terrible!" He stares back at me with dull, practically lifeless eyes, shadows cascading under them.

"...really? I look terrible after working the damn night away with no break in-between? I can't fucking believe it, Stan." The ginger responds sarcastically.

"How...how much sleep did you get?" I question, picking myself up off of the ground. Jesus, I slept in my fucking coat. Did I pass out?

He audibly takes a sip of his Red Bull, eyes only half open and glazed over, and snickers.

"Bold of you to assume I slept, Stan." He looks amused which I find odd for somebody who literally hasn't had any rest. "But I'm feeling fine and fucking dandy! Everything is swell, everything is awesome!" He seems to be in good spirits judging by his previous comments.

"Well, that's good," I respond, earning an eye roll.

"It was a facetious comment, Stan." He adds, chuckling quietly.

"A who what what? English, please." I feel like the dude talks in riddles. I'm not a fucking dictionary, Kyle. I'm a person. Like, a normal human being. And like many normal human beings, I also have alcoholism, which is really fucking great! ...boy, do I hate this sad life I live.