Chapter Text
The second Steve regains consciousness, he regrets ever being born. The bright late morning sun Vegas’ has made its way through the messily pulled down blinds of the hotel room, peaking through some slits at the top, aiming directly at his face. But having the sun face-fuck you early on is by far not the worst part of this morning.
The real torment Steve’s dealing with right now is an immense fucking headache. Probably a result of too many appletinis. Or too many of anything, really.
He can’t remember much of Hafu’s birthday party yesterday, but he knows for sure that he got absolutely shitfaced. Foolishly, 5up had made a bet that he could keep up with a man who simply isn’t just way bigger in size, but also has years of drinking experience ahead of him. While the guy might had actually impressed Steve with the amount of shots he could down in just an hour, he still was able to proudly defend his title “closest to an alcoholic” within the crew. In hindsight, the victory now only tasted half as sweet. Especially because his breath fucking stinks.
Steve groans and tries rolling over, gently and slowly, to prevent as much further brain pain as possible. It doesn’t work very well and all he’s left with is regret, hurt and the question what the fuck he had done to deserve this torture.
After an unknown time of stalling, desperately trying to avoid the sunrays, flipping over left and right every few minutes and occasionally burying his head inside the pillow, Steve finally decides to face real life and its responsibilities. Lying on his stomach he flips his head, not without wincing and the movement, reaching out for his phone at the nightstand. He vaguely identifies Dumdog’s body across the room, lying in the bed adjacent to the window. His shoulders are rising and lowering gently, suggesting that he’s still fast asleep. What a lucky motherfucker.
The phone screen is just as bright, and through squinted eyes, it takes Steve a moment to process the time shown. 09:23. He sighs. Way too fucking early for the morning after. But now he’s awake, so he might as well.
He sits up and looks around the room. His head is still spinning slightly.
The first step of rehabilitation after a night out is always water and, luckily, the two of them had happened to buy a pack in foresight. He manages to down nearly an entire bottle before a feeling of nausea overcomes him. But at least it helped with the headache. Barely. Still feeling a bit intoxicated, he grabs a few fresh clothes and his phone once again, finally making his way to their shared bathroom.
While brushing his teeth, Steve scrolls through his phone, checking discord for any new messages. Hafu texted him at four a.m. (which apparently was the time they got back to the hotel) expressing her gratitude for their visit and wishing them a save drive back to the hotel, followed by a bunch of hearts. To which drunk Steve simply had replied with “too late”, resulting to several question marks from Hafu.
He still can’t bring up the energy to take a shower, so he pulls up the camera to check his hungover face, because for whatever reason, they don’t have a mirror in this bathroom. He’s about to close it again, having had enough close ups of his face for the day, as he notices an unknown image on the bottom left, next to the photo button. Where you usually see your most recently taken picture.
He can’t remember taking any. Steve isn’t the guy that turns professional photographer and all when he’s drunk. That’s a nerdy thing to do. Most people simply look like shit on pictures, especially when they are drunk, and they don’t want to see that shit again sober. Curiously, he clicks on it and starts swiping through his camera roll. Most of them are blurry, with some you can’t even make out what originally was being photographed, but there are also a few good ones.
Hafu and David cuddling on the couch, surrounded by balloons, looking happier than he’s ever seen them. 5up, Kimi and him doing shots while standing. Apollo sitting on the floor with a bottle of wine next to him, grinning at the camera with a clearly tipsy expression. They plaster a fond smile on his face as he swipes and swipes, a feeling of warmth settling deep in his stomach more and more.
And then, his heart skips a beat.
There’s a picture of him and Apollo, on the couch, sitting close. Very close. Their shoulders are touching, as well as their thighs. Apollo’s laughing at something, hard, and Steve just sits there, limbs loosely hanging, looking positively hammered and gone out his mind. His head rests on the back pillow and his face is entirely turned to his left, towards Dumbdog, staring at him intensely, a small, dopey smile on his lips. It feels intimate.
He can’t identify the look in his eyes. He doesn’t dare to.
Something about the photo entrances him, keeping his gaze locked. It takes him a while to swipe to the next one.
This time, his heart starts beating twice as fast.
It’s the same location, the same people pictured, Apollo and him sitting on the couch, but this time, Steve’s right hand is sprawled over Apollo’s lap, grasping his upper right thigh. His torso is twisted in the direction of Dumbdog’s, leaning heavily into him, every last inch of personal space long gone.
They are kissing.
Steve locks his phone.
And just stares blankly at the tiles of the bathroom wall. What?
How? Why? When?
Why doesn’t he remember this? Shouldn’t he remember this?
And who the fuck took the photo?
A million questions are shooting through his brain right now. He can’t provide answers to any of them. He doesn’t know if he even wants an answer for some of them. And, above all, he doesn’t know what the fuck to do now.
Was it consensual? At least it looked like it was on the picture. Apollos hands on his cheeks, holding him in place. Eyes closed. Lips parted. A strange emotion jolts through Steve’s body, sending shivers across his arms and down his spine. Does Apollo remember?
Fuck, he really doesn’t want to think about all of this right now, whilst still having a massive fucking headache.
Frustrated, he spits out the remnants of toothpaste and starts undressing, aimlessly throwing his clothes onto a messy pile on the floor. Who even says this has to mean something, he thinks, as he steps under the shower head. This doesn’t have to mean anything, he decides, as he reaches for the shampoo. He won’t worry about it any longer.
He keeps thinking about it throughout the entire shower.
When he gets out of the shower and back into their shared room, Apollo’s bed is empty and his shoes are gone. Steve figures he probably went out to buy some food for breakfast. A part of him is relieved for not having to face whatever the hell this is. Yet. The other part gnaws at his conscience for feeling the need to avoid Dumbdog, at least for now.
A small part still shelters that strange feeling from before.
Absentmindedly, he flops down on his bed again, a towel still in his hand ruffling through his dripping hair. The blinds have been lifted and the sun is now fully illuminating the room, giving access to observe the Las Vegas morning hustle.
Steve tries to focus his gaze on the view outside the window, but it keeps drifting back to the crumbled bedsheets below it.