Missing [ST]

Fifteen

Twelfth of March: Four Days Later

Drugs were Steven's escape.

It wasn't always the way, but when his life changed, so had the good times label, and so had his reliance. What hadn't changed was that he was never too far away from them and thus, they were never too far away from him.

They were exactly why he had a headache, an unforgiving one clouding over his eyes and disputing his sinuses, and most likely explained why he was lying flat on his stomach, not in a bed, and in a room that he didn't recognise.

Steven squinted at his wonderful view of a sideways bed frame, accepting he had not returned to base camp last night, and had passed out from too much of a buzz.

It took two attempts for him to get up, an achievement when he did, until an onset of nausea reminded him of whatever he had taken last night.

Panic awakening him, Steven spotted the much too convenient ensuite behind him, stumbled towards it, and threw up whatever was left in his stomach.

He couldn't really remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal; he didn't need to when he was blowing his brains out, but it probably wasn't helping his sober sickness.

Steven didn't want to look at himself in the mirror, not when he was rinsing out his mouth, fighting a headache, and unsure of where he was, but he couldn't avoid it. His nose had bled, his hair was a neglected mess, and his stubble was visible. A functioning addict was far fetched when Steven was so obviously becoming physically unwell.

He didn't even attempt to make himself more presentable, taking a piss instead, and then he was left to scratch his head at the queen sized bed with crumpled crimson red sheets and pillows that had been slept on, but not by him.

Steven didn't think he had ever been kicked out of bed after sex, so he questioned if it had happened. It was further evidence for him being fully dressed and sleeping on the floor, but someone at some point had definitely been in here with him.

A large chest of drawers with a pair of pink lace underwear draped over a knob enticed Steven's attention, such placement encouraging his fingers to brush against the material and picture the girl they might belong to.

It didn't ease his headache, but he did catch a glimpse of his boots sticking out from underneath the duvet.

Steven bent down to pick them up, too busy trying to piece together what had happened last night, and had the intention to head out the door and find the nearest human being to interrogate.

Movement, sobering up, standing on his feet too long- it all just made his stomach unsettle, and it was back to the bathroom, dropping his boots along the way, and hugging the toilet again.

"Well he's in here." Steven spat and wiped his mouth, his other keeping his hair clumped at the back of his head.. "And by the sounds of it, puking his guts up."

There was a long pause after he flushed the toilet, and Steven was left to nurse what he hoped was the end of his horrific green feeling.

"So? What do you want me to do about it?"

"Do about it!? For fuck sake Anton! Why don't you do something useful for a change!"

It just had to be him out there. The one guy Steven actually despised, his reason secured after their bathroom encounter. Anton had never liked him, but now he just glared in his direction every time he opened his mouth. So, he was already siding with whoever this chick was, an assumption from the voice, because it sounded like she might hate him too.