Echo Of Us • Zarry

B 3

Harry wakes up feeling like a piece of horse shit that's been run over by a truck at least twenty times. His mouth is a literal desert, his entire body aches and his head's pounding so hard it seems like there are hundreds of tiny men hitting his skull repeatedly with pickaxes. But that's what he deserves. Getting drunk out of his mind always ends like this – the morning hangover is inevitable.

            He tries to sit up without passing out or throwing up and it surprisingly works. When he leans on his right hand, his palm lands in something sticky and slimy. Harry forcefully closes his eyes and this time, he's doing all he can to keep the bile that's climbing up his throat down. It's a condom from last night because of course it is. As if Harry's entire aching body and arse along with hundreds of regrets weren't enough to remind him of the fiasco.

            Taking a shower and not falling asleep again is a challenge, but it manages to actually wake Harry up and after he scrubs the remnants of last night off his skin and puts some nice moisturizer on his face, the days starts to get sort of bearable. He throws the used condom out, changes his sheets and opens the window, letting the brisk February air cleanse the room. Usually, Harry would go to the gym downstairs, for at least a quick fifteen-minute session but he doesn't feel like torturing himself any more. Instead, he goes to the kitchen and gets himself some breakfast. Over an avocado toast and a cup of coffee, Harry finds a different way to torture himself that doesn't include working out.

+

            "Harry, you can't be serious," Nick judges from his perch on a barstool behind the breakfast bar. A cup of steaming coffee is in front of him and he looks about twenty times worse than Harry. Serves him right. He was the one who was strutting around the party all night with a bottle of vodka in his hand and a baggie of coke in his pocket and kept accidentally pouring the vodka into Harry's shot glass.

            "Well, I am so deal with it. Where the fuck is my wallet?" Harry's been rummaging through his entire flat for ten minutes and he still hasn't found it. Did he lose it last night? Fuck, he hopes not. Calling the bank and doing all of that annoying shit with stolen credit cards is too much work and Harry doesn't want to deal with that.

            "It's right in front of you, stupid. In that amazing 'everything jar' of yours. Do you need to get your eyes checked out? And also, perhaps your head as well since your actions have no correlation to your words whatsoever?"

            Harry takes out his wallet with a deep sigh and puts it in his back pocket. He turns to Nick and braces himself on the kitchen worktop.

            "No, thank you for your concern, Nicholas. I am an adult capable of making his own decision. I turned twenty-four yesterday, have you forgotten?"

            "You look like a mother of four scolding her son Jaxon for leaving his dirty socks on the floor."

            "Thank you. Now I'm going to leave. Don't set my flat on fire."

            Harry grabs his phone from the breakfast bar and starts walking to the door. Before he can actually leave, Nick's whinging stops him once again.

            "You're making a big mistake, Harry. This can never end well, no matter how hard you try."

            Harry sighs as he sits on the back of a couch.

            "We're friends, Nick. Nothing less and nothing more."

            Nick scoffs, his back turned to Harry. Then he slowly spins in his chair and judgementally stares at Harry.

            "What did he say to you that you've got your knickers in such a twist you couldn't wait to leave?"

            Harry furrows his brows. "Nothing. He just wanted to get lunch because it was my birthday yesterday. Like a friend that couldn't come to my birthday party."