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Scott didn't drink.
He hadn't drunk since the fight with Envy, since she broke his heart, tore it still beating out of his chest and drowned it in a bowl of cheap whiskey and too sweet punch. Scott didn't drink when Envy was still Natalie, back when she still loved him. Back before she joined that stupid band that was infinitely better than anything that he could do. Back when he still had money, a job, and an actual life.
He had bought the cheapest wine he could find. When the crying, and the ranting, and the punching anything or anyone he could find wasn't enough; he found himself back staring at the shelves upon shelves of reds and purples, mocking him with their sheer existence. He didn't drink. Not because of some grandiose self-betterment regiment he put himself on, but because he couldn't. He was too powerless. Too weak.
Scott nearly collapsed onto the bed. His stomach was killing him, like every bad thing he ever did was forming into mites crawling deep into his intestines dead set on rotting him from the inside. He just needed it to end. Everything felt like too much; the world felt like too much. His shirt tag was digging into his skin. Feebly grabbing at his stupid hand me down t-shirt, he nearly tore the irritating satin off. He wanted to cry, he wanted to cry so badly, but any attempt he made at relenting control to his pitiful nature, failed. He failed at being sad, how does one do that? The plastic bag that he threw on the futon suddenly grabbed his attention. He shuffled up against the wall holding the matted bag like it was a disgusting child. He hadn't drunk a single drop. The constant pressure he kept whilst pushing his head against the corner of the chair felt calming, felt...normal. He traced the bottle until he found a hole that he could tear open. He had a goal, a single mission. The bottle was cold, chilling his hands. Scott hadn't realized how flushed he was, how warm his cheeks and top of his ears had gotten. With the last of his strength, he slumped over, onto his side, and cuddled with the bottle up against his face.
He didn't dream that much. Well, he never remembered his dreams, to be more accurate. His memories were always fuzzy, just barely there, just barely a whisper of something better to keep him longing for something he didn't have. What did he have? A shitty apartment, a shitty band, a shitty love life. God, he was spiraling. The great Scott Pilgrim was finally spiraling. What was it his old therapist said? To...ground himself? He's inside, there's no...ground here. It was to focus on his surroundings? To focus on only one thing? He was slightly more awake at this point, his internal clock was telling him it was in the morning. The past night's actions still eluded him. All that mattered was the here and now. He felt the mattress underneath him; he somehow sleep crawled himself over to it. Wallace...did he even come home last night? He didn't hear him, or any of his 'escorts' he brought. A twinge of coldness comes over him, causing him to pull the now apparent covers closer over his body. It was weird though, it was the dead of winter and he was certain that he had accidentally broken the space heater that Wallace bought. He was more awake now, the cogs in his brain working overtime trying to figure out this enigma after all the stress he put them under. Scott finally opened his eyes, the sun not yet cursing him with her warmth and shine. Yet he was still warm. He wasn't stupid. Somewhere deep in his subconscious he knew where he was, what was happening, but still he clung to naivety. That was, until he heard the soft sounds of a man sleeping next to him, in between his arms. Well, more accurately, Scott's arms were wrapped around Wallace's back. And it felt nice. There was no other way to describe it. It was simple. No strings attached to cuddling your roommate, when he was probably drunk as hell and he assumed that you were too. Scott sighed, simply letting himself breath. Nothing mattered. Not Envy, or Natalie, or The Clash at Demonhead, or anyone else. Just right now. Just in this moment. When life can be simple.
That is until Wallace decided to get up, causing all warmth Scott once had to leave his body. He held onto Wallace's torso, like a child being left at daycare and holding onto his parents legs in hopes that their small strength will cause any sort of meaningful change to happen, until he was able to swat at Scott's face, causing him to flop back to the mattress.
'What the hell, man.' Scott's voice was croaky and dry, after not being used for at least a day, and all he could muster was a sound slightly higher than a whine.
Wallace just ignored him, stepping over his body and heading for the bathroom.
Scott slowly got up, feeling all of the stress and anxiety that plagued him yesterday, but only as a distant thought in the back of his mind; a chronic pain that would flair up but never truly leave him. He stretched, trying to hype himself up for the nothing day in front of him. Crossing the room, he saw the remnants of past mistakes. A poster failing to cover a punched in hole through the drywall, his cracked ipod with the downloaded songs of She Who Shall Not Be Named, the sleeping computer that has email upon email of spam and denied job applications. Scott rubbed his temples, trying to massage not his skin but his brain itself. His neurons themselves were sore. Sore from thinking and not drinking. Wallace silently entered the living room, but Scott was so out of it that Wallace could have shouted from the top of his lungs and he would have still jumped when he walked behind him to get a glass of water.
'Good morning. Sleep well?' Scott couldn't tell if Wallace was smiling, but he sounded like he was. As much as any one man can sound like he's smiling.
'I...slept fine.' Scott felt his face grow warm, and he was glad that they were not facing each other. Not like it was his intention to wake up in that situation. It was his intention to stay like that, however. He stopped thinking about that. So he focused on Wallace.
Thinking about it, he didn't look too hungover. But Wallace never really did, did he? He had seen Scott at his very lowest, bawling his eyes out over...nothing really. He can't remember a single time he had seen Wallace cry. He couldn't remember much of anything about Wallace. Except for all those times, when Scott was so delirious from his own sadness that he forgot his own name, that was when he was able to remember in perfect detail. It just sometimes takes a while for that memory to resurface from his subconscious. To recall Wallace entering the apartment, the loud creak of the door awaking him from light slumber, with some dude who he has never seen before hugging his waist. To recall Wallace turning on the light, being forced to see the scene right in front of his eyes, and casting away his would-be boy toy away for the night. To recall Wallace, just Wallace, ever so gently picking him up bridal style, wine bottle in tow, and placing Scott on the mattress.
And as all of the revelations hit him at once, his head felt, once again, heavy. Scott didn't even know why. Why he would ever feel pain at that. It was no longer simple, he no longer felt the warmth of comfort.
Wallace did nothing but sit next to him on the bar stool, and slide a cup next to him, saying nothing. And Scott, in turn, said nothing back. There was nothing to say. All he could do was grab the cold, condensating glass and sooth his ever aching throat. Sitting in complete silence with his roommate. That was all Scott felt comfortable with calling him at the moment.