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Stan takes a deep breath. He steadies himself in his bed, against the headboard, and circles the pad of his forefinger around the lip of his wine bottle. It’s empty now, but the weight settled against his palm is warm and familiar and he can’t seem to let it fall away from him.
His chest aches, though he can barely tell if it hurts more or less than his head. He’s not looking at it, but there’s another weight in his opposite hand, keeping him aware of the fact that his hand is still loosely gripping around the frame of his cellphone. It’s probably still open, probably still quietly blipping with every unanswered message from…someone, surely. Stan’s nose scrunches ever so slightly at the thought of someone wanting to text him now, when he’s like this—drowning out his misery.
He lifts his wrist and squints through tired eyes to see the screen. It’s still lit up, so it can’t have been that long, though Stan isn’t exactly in the best position to properly judge the passing of time. He recognizes Kyle’s name through the blur of color and smudged letters at the top of the screen, a flurry of messages displayed in front of him.
He can’t really read any of them, but he gets the gist; Kyle is worried. Or he’s mad. Probably both, knowing Kyle. Knowing himself. Kyle’s always some form of worried or pissed when he’s around.
Stan grimaces, and his chest tightens again. It fucking hurts and it feels like a twisting valve on a pipe that’s barely stopped from bursting.
He huffs, a hard and labored breath. Bad idea. Still, his thumb moves slowly and less than carefully to type a response; it’s difficult to even decipher what he’s saying or meaning when the thoughts connect from his brain through his thumb into the screen, but he’s fucked and doesn’t give a shit.
He needs Kyle, and when he asks (begs), Kyle shows up.
A simple, horribly misspelled, “please come over, I really need you right now,” is enough. The grey text bubble pops up and disappears once, then twice, and then a fuzzy, “coming,” is all that’s left in its wake.
Stan counts the seconds in distracted, rhythmic taps. His fingernails clink against the neck of the wine bottle still stuck firm in his grasp, echoing high-pitched tunes that he can’t place names to.
There’s a knock on the door, then the knob jitters, and then Kyle is standing in the doorway, surrounded by the hall light, looking like a fucking angel.
“What song is this?” Stan asks. His voice sounds heavy and the words aren’t entirely there. He clinks the bottle over and over again, despite Kyle’s watercolor expression.
“I don’t know,” Kyle says as he makes his way across the room. He sits at the edge of Stan’s bed, just beside him, and gently reaches across his torso to wiggle the glass out of his hand. “Can you sleep?”
Stan pouts, childish, but he shakes his head. “Tried,” he grumbles. “Can’t.”
There’s a water bottle in Kyle’s hand. Stan notices it when he twists himself back toward the nightstand and sets the wine bottle down.
“Give it,” he says.
Kyle’s eyes flicker down and then back upward in the same second. He presses the water bottle into Stan’s hands, making absolutely sure he won’t let his grip falter and spill it everywhere before releasing it. Stan takes puppy sips, crinkling the plastic every so often.
“We’re going to talk about this,” Kyle comments after a few seconds of silence. His fingers are playing with the loose end of Stan’s blanket, hanging halfway off his bed. “You know that.”
Stan makes an incoherent noise before he shifts further back against the headboard. “I know,” he murmurs, spiked with bitterness. It’s not directed at Kyle.
“Okay,” Kyle says. “Good.”
“Sorry,” Stan’s grip tightens around the bottle in his hands, and he barely stops himself before the water squeezes out the top, “for, y’know, texting you and shit. Making you babysit me again.”
Kyle sighs, but it doesn’t sound disappointed. If it’s meant to, Stan’s pretty sure his alcohol-doused brain is filtering that out for him. “It’s fine,” he assures, tilting his head back. He traces incomprehensible shapes in the dark ceiling with his pupils. “You wanna talk about it?”
He almost laughs. “No,” Stan spits out, far too quickly for it to sound anything but messy. “No, I—sorry,” he sputters. “It’s stupid, you’ll just—you’ll laugh.”
“Do I look like I’d laugh at you?” Kyle scoffs, and Stan stares at him. His expression is stable, unflinching, and nothing but serious.
Tears prick at the corners of Stan’s eyes; he can feel them, but there’s no painful surge bubbling in his chest. In a shaky, rushed movement, he caps the water bottle and sets it down on the nightstand next to the wine bottle. “I guess not,” he says, swallowing dryly. His teeth hook over his bottom lip, a silent plea for the beading drops gathering over his eyelids to stay, be still, don’t fucking move.
“Stan,” Kyle says. He notices. He always does.
“It’s stupid,” Stan whispers hoarsely. Barbed wire coils up his throat and he can feel hot liquid stream down his cheeks.
“Stanley,” Kyle repeats, firmer. He scoots backward, closer, and takes Stan’s free hand in his own. Stan can feel Kyle hesitate, but he slowly locks their fingers together and presses the palms of their hands against one another. The warmth is oddly cooling where their skin touches. “It’s not stupid,” he continues, softer, lighter. “You’re crying. It’s not stupid—don’t belittle your own emotions like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Stan mutters pitifully; he hasn’t felt like this much of a child in forever. Probably not since he turned thirteen. “I’m sorry, fuck.”
Kyle sighs, feather-light, and reaches forward, pressing the pad of his thumb underneath Stan’s eyes. He wipes the tears away in such a way that it’s impossible for Stan not to tilt his head, to lean into the comforting touch of his best friend, to let Kyle’s hand open around his cheek and caress him. He does.
“Don’t be sorry,” Kyle breathes, and his thumb strokes across the tear-glistening, red-hot skin. “You’re alright. Promise.”
Stan sniffles and swallows down a hiccup. “I just—” he starts, willing a clogged throat to open up around a whirlwind of thoughts— “I can’t.” A sob hangs off the end of his tongue, followed by a limp movement of his head forward and away from Kyle’s affectionate touch.
Fuck.
Kyle frowns, though he lets his hand fall without a fight. “Don’t force yourself, Stan.”
“I want to,” Stan says, and it sounds desperate, like some kind of plea to a higher power hovering behind Kyle’s figure. “I just—I can’t, and I—I know why, but I—”
“Stan,” Kyle says, and Stan clamps his mouth shut. He looks at him in an indistinguishable way, but there’s the same softness. Fondness. Stan’s heart swells behind the scribbled lines of his rib cage. “You don’t have to force yourself.”
“Okay,” Stan whispers. He doesn’t say anything else, just sits there and lets Kyle watch him. His chest rises and falls, deep breaths to calm the storm clouds in his eyes and tsunamis in his stomach.
They sit there, fingers still laced together, curled around each other tightly. Stan wonders if Kyle’s thinking the same thing—that letting go would sweep him away in the rapids, carry him offshore in the swirling wind.
Stan inhales, exhales, then squeezes his eyes shut.
Kyle’s heartbeat rests under the stretch of his palm.