fly | madderton

TWO

"Baby, we're gonna be late. You've gotta get up."

Even at a low whisper, Richard's voice was too loud. The finger trailing along Taron's jaw was too invasive, and the feeling in his stomach was bad news.

"'m tired, and I feel like shit.." Taron murmured back, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. Richard's favourite thing to do first thing in the morning was open their curtains, and Taron was not about to fall into that trap. It was bad enough sober.

"You did have quite a few shots, babe.. I can't really say it's anyone's fault but your own." Richard laughed a little, his breath warm on Taron's face. He was far too close, considering the building burn in Taron's throat.

"I'm gonna puke.." Taron mumbled, causing Richard to leap away from him and out of the bed. If nothing else, it was a good way to get Richard to stop bugging Taron, so Taron could get some more sleep in peace.

Richard was swift to get the bowl from Taron's nightstand, and Taron was disappointed when all he could do was spit into it. That unsatisfying, disgusting feeling lingered in the back of his throat, constantly threatening but never materialising into anything more.

Richard was happy that Taron was awake enough not to choke on his own sick, so headed through to the kitchen to get him a glass of water and a plain slice of toast, as well as flicking the kettle on to make Taron a mug of coffee. If none of that worked, he was beat. It wasn't often he had to deal with Taron's hangovers, but this was definitely far from the worst. Taron barely drank. Not heavily, anyway. He'd have a few beers in the week, but the nights when he did drink properly seemed to be an attempt to make up for lost time.

"T, I've-" Richard stopped in his tracks in the bedroom doorway, the brief flicker of disgust on his face changing to amusement when he realised - Thank God - that Taron was yet to throw up into the bowl that he was currently using as a pillow. He set the glass down before carefully sitting on his side of the bed and resting his hand on the top of Taron's head. "I've got toast for you, babe. And water, and the kettle's on. You're gonna have to sit up a little, though."

Taron contemplated for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut impossibly tighter before he slowly lifted his head out of the bowl and blinked up at his boyfriend. To his surprise, the room was still fairly dark, the only light being that spilling in from the open door and the faint glow through their cheap curtains.

Richard couldn't help but smile at the scene in front of him, face bright red and hair a sweaty mess sticking up in all directions. It was disgusting, all the way down to the dribble marks down Taron's chin, but somehow Richard found it endearing.

He leant forward and gently pressed his lips to Taron's head, a soft smile ever present on his face as he whispered to his boyfriend.

"What are we going to do with you, hey?"

———

The words on the menu were all blurring into one mass. The alcohol from the night before was still having ill effects on Taron's body, and he couldn't wait to be free of the headache infested hell he'd caused himself. None of them had expected to be out as late as they were, nor to drink quite as much as they had. Especially as much as Taron had. That meant that their previously decided-upon breakfast plans had been pushed back to lunch plans. Richard had somehow managed to drag Taron out of bed, into the shower and out of the flat before they had to push the plans back even further, and they made it to the café before the others arrived, which Richard thought was a pretty impressive feat considering the state of his boyfriend only a few hours earlier.