You're Up Awfully Late {Septiplier}

Just for the Breakfast

Jack's lips press into a fake smile, his cheeks aching furiously from the lie. He and a number of his friends are pressed together at a table, too many chairs for the small, wooden surface. Jack is stuffed between Wade and Ken, specifically sitting away from Mark.

Mark is easily caught up in the antics of his Ohio brethren, gladly pressed between Wade and Bob. He noted, when they first arrived, that Jack place himself away, but he tries to ignore it, though he is deeply aware that they need to speak again.

The table is littered with plates, empty glasses, and wadded napkins. Sickeningly sweet syrup or butter drenched eggs stick to mostly empty dishes. The men talk easily, hands resting on their full stomachs. The waitress approaches the ruckus, smiling as fake as Jack in these early morning hours: though hiding it far worse.

"Can I get you gentlemen anything else?" she asks.

"Grab us a round of beers and the check please," Felix decides, hand fishing in his pockets for his wallet.

"It's eight in the morning!" Wade demands, forcing the waitress to pause again, looking towards Felix. Her facade cracks a bit more, her eyes no long following her upturn lips.

"Oh, don't be a pussy," Felix draws, handing his card to the waitress. She snatches it, nodding before turning her back.

"Charity again," Mark scoffs, rolling his eyes at the Swede.

"You can always pay for drinks a second time," Felix teases.

A sickening feeling settles in Jack's stomach at the meet mention of alcohol. He hasn't drank since that night, but the scent of a stiff beer on Mark's breath is burned into his memory.

Jack excused himself to the bathroom, stomach churning and mind swimming. The others barely notice his escape, scolding each other on the proper times to drink and when to classify oneself as an alcoholic. Thankfully, the bathroom is empty, so he finds himself at the sink, running cold water over his fingers and dabbing his forehead.

He jumps when the door opens, mildly relieved to find Bob. The pale American gives Jack a bright smile, washing his hands beside the Irishman, and Jack tries to mimic the expression. He must have failed because Bob pauses, glancing up.

"You okay, Jack?" Bob asks.

"Yeah!" he replies, too quick and loud. "I mean, of course. What could possibly be wrong?"

"You're not a good liar," Bob mentions, pulling brown paper towels from the dispenser.

Jack laughs, horribly nervous. His heart is a beating a little too fast, afraid Bob has caught on. Or Mark told him. Jack's stomach does a summersault, and his cheeks grow red. If Bob knows, then who else does? Is that what the table has been thinking about when they see him?

"Are you sick or something?" Bob asks, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

"I might be," Jack agrees, thankful he has a quick escape. "But I don't have time to be sick. I have to be my best for this convention."

"You know, you can talk to us about anything," Bob offers, eyes flashing over the other's face, irises digging through his expression to find the truth.

Jack shrugs, specifically slow. "There's nothin' to talk about."

"You know we are always here for you, right?" Bob offers.

"Oh god please don't give me a therapy session," Jack draws with the shake of his head. "I'm okay, Bob. I swear it."

Bob frowns but nods regardless. "Okay, but we're here for you. Honestly Jack, all of us are here for you."

"I appreciate it," Jack smiles, genuine. "But I'm fine."

Bob gives a bit of a sigh but accepts Jack's answer. They meander back to the table to find tall glasses filled with cold, amber beer waiting. Taking a seat, Felix is the first to take his glasses. He looks as if he may give a toast, but he smirks instead.

"I bet I'll be the first to down this entire beer," he wagers, cocky smile across his lips.

The bet ignites the competitive spirit of the table, and the men nudge each other, roll their eyes, and mumble trash talk. They grab their beers, tossing sly smirks. The slyest smirk comes from Mark, who almost has his lips on the rim of his glass.

Jack tries to play along, but he feels sick at the smell of the alcohol. His intensities are in knots, wrapping around each other like serpents. His core may be rotting with the festering guilt, and he fears a single touch to the chest would collapse his ribs.

He isn't ready when someone begin the countdown and refuses to touch his glass as the other men chug, slamming down their empty glasses one at a time. Ken finishes first, with a cry of victory, but he quiets at the sight of Jack, eyebrows falling heavily in concern.

"You okay, Jack?" he asks, the other men just beginning to pull back from the shenanigans.

"I need to go lie down," Jack decides, pushing himself up from the table.

"I'll walk you back," Mark offers, standing.

"No!" Jack nearly screams, far too much this early in a busily cafe. His table stares up at him, along with a few faces from others. His face flashes pink, but he stands his ground.

"No," he repeats, calmer. "I'll be fine. Don't stop the fun just because of me."

"I'll go with you," Bob decides, despite Jack's intentions. "I don't think you should go alone. You look really pale, Jack."

Jack puts on a tight smile, attempting a chuckle, "I'm always pale, Bob. Please, just let me go on my own. I'll meet up with you guys at the first panel, okay? I just need a little more sleep."

The men at the table share worried glances, shifting eyes but saying nothing. Jack can't truly look at any of them, terrified his mask will break, but he can especially feel Mark's eyes on him, boring guilt infested holes into his skull.

Finally, Felix sighs, "Okay, Jack. We trust that you know best. Just text us when you get back to your room, okay?"

The Irishman gives a nod, turning from the table. The sickness in his stomach bubbles, but he forces it down. He makes a plan to fall into bed as soon as he steps foot in his hotel room, though he is all too aware that he will be bent over the toilet- spilling his breakfast- before he can meet the warm embrace.