Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

xvii. the first step

IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR THE STUPIDEST THING HE'D DONE IN HIS LIFE, SCOUT WOULD HAVE SAID GETTING DRUNK FOR THE FIRST TIME DIDN'T GO ALL THAT BAD. After all, it didn't take long for his stomach to turn itself inside out and empty its contents into the (surprisingly clean?) toilet bowl in front of him -- which, by the way, he didn't get a chance to thank his benefactor and host for. He didn't get to do a lot of things that night, at least after that... other thing. The floor was so cold and cool, the heat that began in his heart and spread to his face so hot and humiliating -- his brain evidently decided it just seemed easier to lie there for however long it took for the party to die down below. When the vaguely pleasant feeling of thrumming, vibrating music finally began to dissipate, Scout eventually forced himself to push his body off the floor, sitting up in the same position as he had been before. Had he fallen asleep? He must have.

Even before bringing a hand to his cheek, Scout could feel the indented crease of the tile on his skin. It didn't hurt exactly; more like a pressure that had been lifted, but didn't quite seem like it had gone away completely. It had left its mark, its presence. His fingers grazed the cut on his cheekbone from when he'd been jumped, and he nearly jumped out of his skin upon feeling the scabbed over area -- the alcohol was working its way of his system, leaving an open gate for anything and everything else.

Something wet caught his attention, and he's forced to wrench his eyes away from the empty spot beside him to... what looks like water? Fingertips glistening and brain still not fully functional (But then again, when is it ever), Scout brought the suspiciously damp skin to his mouth and licked it, frowning when he found absolutely no taste. So, water, some logical part of him wants to say, conclude and be done with it, but there's something else. He blinked. Blinked again.... Several more blinks later -- and what he hoped would not somehow turn into some kind of weird eye issue in the future -- and there it is.

Tears. Obviously, says the logical part of his brain (Seriously, where was this before?). If the coin-sized puddle of water on the floor where his face used to be wasn't any indication, maybe the buckets of tears he was pretty sure he cried might ring a bell. His memory was hazy, not nonexistent. Although he kind of -- scratch that, really -- wished it was.

And despite how heavy his heart felt right now -- as though the organ in his chest was water-logged to the extent of collapse, thanks for asking -- his brain had no problem fleshing it all out once again, as if he hadn't been the one to actually experience it. Flashes go by -- an image here, a vague still of jumbled faces there -- until landing on exactly what he dreaded thinking about.

Steve is there. Not surprisingly, seeing as how he was the one who'd brought Scout up here in the first place. He wanted to focus on before, when they'd just been sitting together in each other's company, not speaking (even if it was because his face had been shoved in a toilet bowl...priorities). He wanted so badly to do nothing but think about the boy's smile, the way the corner of his mouth lifted up at the hint of humor, the way he thought enough about him to think to bring that stupid, kiddy juice box because he remembered Scout technically didn't drink. He remembered all of it, and he wanted none of it.

The look of horror on Steve's face, for one. As if it were unthinkable to even have such feelings for someone Scout knew he was willing to die for, even, if it ever came to that. Okay... so maybe he's being a bit dramatic (Honestly? Dying sounds kind of extreme, so maybe Sober Scout would want to give that a quick rethink) but the selfish part of him whispers -- no, shouts, because he's still got that hangover to deal with -- that he deserves at least that. If not the relationship.... at least he can bitch about it.

And cry about it. Because he very much wanted to continue doing that too.

"Scout?"

He yelped way too high-pitched, enough so that his weird combo of drunk/nearing sober/hangover self had enough rationale to be embarrassed, his cheeks heating up even more than he would have thought possible at the sound. His elbow painfully thwacks! against the base of the toilet as he scrambled to sit up and see who it was, adding a smarting sort of tingling sensation running up and down his arm to his list of pain. Physical pain, that is. Emotional pain? Whole. Other. Level.