Work Text:
I wake up cuddling a cheap bottle of rum and fuck, I wish I could say this was the first time. I check my phone through aching, unfocused eyes, ignore about six texts from Ken in favor of checking my call history. Sixteen outgoing calls to Wendy. Looks like they all went unanswered too. I don't know if I should feel grateful or hurt.
Fuck, wonder what the voicemails are like? Bet they're as pathetic as the rest of my life. I roll over in the mess of tangled sheets, groaning in protest when my head pounds and my stomach sloshes uncomfortably.
Guess this is what I deserve though. At the very least.
Wendy and I have broken up before, sure, but never like this. Never with the understanding that we're done for good. There's no saving us, nothing to work on, no fixing me. I don't blame her really. I'd probably have been hurt if she was pining over other men, too.
But it's not like she had actual competition. He barely knows I exist now. It doesn't matter that I'm still athletic or that I can party with the best of them. Hell, these days I can give Ken a real run for his money. He's not into that sort of thing, though. Don't know if he ever really was, or if he was just being a good friend and indulging my interests.
I'm not even sure he likes men to be honest. We all suspected back in school, but he's dated a few girls since then, even if nothing came of it and I haven't seen him with anyone in a couple years at least.
My phone rings and goddamnit it's work. I sit up to answer, talking through an unexpected burp and trying not to puke in my lap. The phone is way too loud and I hold it away from my ear while Tweek sort of screeches unintelligibly at me on the other end.
"Yeah, I'm leaving now." This has become such a common thing that I don't bother to answer like a normal person anymore. We both know how much of a fucked up loser I am.
I force myself up out of bed and pop a couple Tylenol, chase them with a big swig of the pepto I keep on my bedside table. Fuck that's nasty.
"Where the fuck are you? We're slammed and I -ack!- thought we talked about this shit. I can't keep covering with my dad for you. Just, hurry up and get here." He sounds stressed. Well, more than usual. I absentmindedly wonder how many more times he's going to cover for me before he finally gives up and lets his dad replace me with someone that will actually be helpful.
He hangs up without waiting for a response and I stumble to the bathroom to brush my teeth and find my work uniform in the pile of dirty laundry on the floor. I spray them down with some cheap deodorant and hope no one will notice I haven't washed them in at least four shifts.
When was the last time I showered? God I'm disgusting.
No wonder she left. No wonder he barely knows I exist anymore. No wonder the rest of my friends have mostly stopped inviting me anywhere. I wouldn't want me either if I were them. I don't really want me now.
I grab my coat and keys and head for my truck thinking it wouldn't be so bad if I just drove myself to the bottom of Stark's Pond or stepped into oncoming traffic instead of going to work today. Everyone would be better off.
When I get there, Tweek hands me my apron and a shot of espresso that I force down in spite of the way my stomach churns. I make it through the door and manage to get through half my shift in a dizzy blur before I ask for my 15 and head out back to just barely make it out there to puke my brains out in the alleyway.
My head throbs with each heave, and the smell of last night's rum mixing with bile and the pepto and coffee I had this morning causing my stomach to contract painfully. I hear the door close behind me as I'm dry heaving, spit and puke hanging off my lips as I splutter and gag.
When I finally stop long enough to turn, Tweek's there with a blissfully cold bottle of water and a familiar bottle of thick pink liquid. He must have picked it up just for me at some point, since I've never seen him use the stuff. He's pissed, but under that, there's something else in the way he's fidgeting, picking away at the cuticles of his thumbs.
He seems almost -worried- at the state I'm in. The more he watches, grimacing as I take a sip of water and puke it right back into the gross brownish pink puddle at my feet, the more I can pick it out. He's actually worried about me.
My heart leaps to my throat, caught between feeling guilty that I'm hurting yet another person and elated that someone seems to actually give a shit about inside me twists at the thought. I'm not worth it. But I'm desperate for someone, anyone to see how fucked up I am, how much I need someone to hold space for my pain.
He doesn't say anything, but for a second he reaches out and I think he's going to touch me. Instead, his hand flails, whole left side twitching a few times and he shouts.
"Aaah-ack ! Fuck!"
Then he's turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him and I'm left there, frozen.