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"Dude, are you drunk?"
Stan dragged his heavy head off the back of the couch, his eyes burning with strain as he registered Kenny standing above him, arms crossed and a look of vague annoyance masked by concern on his face. It took a second for his question to properly settle in Stan's cognition, his brain wrapped in a layer of fluff that seemed to be filtering out the majority of outside stimuli. Which his headache appreciated, considering how he could feel the ground shake with the energy of the openers.
He certainly felt drunk, at the very least. The tips of his fingers felt light, buzzing as if they had been placed atop a vibrating surface rather than a dingy couch backstage at some low-end venue. Nausea, a common drunken sensation, similarly resided in his body, settled over him like a low fog. The walls and clutter of the room seemed to twist and turn and flop and flip, further adding to the intoxicated-like sensation. Honestly, Stan wouldn't be surprised if he had somehow broken his 12-week sobriety and completely forgotten about it. It didn't seem entirely plausible, considering a relapse tends to be hard to forget, but what else could it be?
"Fuck," he groaned, dragging a heavy hand down his face. Pain flared behind his eyes, sending a nauseating chill down his spine, "maybe."
It felt weird to speak, his throat oddly tight.
"What's happenin' fellas?" Marjorine walked up, slipping her arms around Kenny's waist and resting her head atop his shoulder. She was properly dolled up for the show, her makeup the perfect mix of effortless chaos and beauty.
"Did you tell them about the booze?" Kenny asked, placing his hands atop Marjorine's.
"'Course I mentioned it," she assured, kissing his cheek, "it was taken care of 'fore we even arrived."
"Jesus Stan, wake up on the wrong side of the buh-beh-bed?" Jimmy joined the gathering, also dressed for their show.
Overwhelmed by the semi-circle around him, Stan leaned back once more against the couch. His belt dug into his bones, and yesterday's makeup sat heavy on his face. Grease felt like it was coating his body, giving him the overall sensation of stickiness. Closing his eyes, Stan decided to focus on breathing. Everything felt turbulent, as if he were thrown onto a rollercoaster rather than an immobile couch.
Suddenly, a cold touch pressed against his forehead. A blessed sensation that seemed to siphon the pain from his head.
"He feels warm," Marjorine softly noted, flipping her hand and pressing the back of it against his cheek, "Stan how do you feel?"
He breathed in deliberately through his mouth, the scent of Marjorine's fruity perfume filling his nose. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, not grossly artificial or overpowering in the slightest, but it only seemed to exasperate the pressure behind his eyes.
"'M fine," he assured as the crowd cheered for the end of the opening act.
"Maybe we should cancel," Marjorine commented quietly as she pulled away from Stan, "or one of the openers could sub-"
"No!" Stan proclaimed, launching upright. He ignored the way his stomach clenched at the motion, far more preoccupied with the determination to put on a show. These were his songs. The people were here for him. And hell, maybe that was a narcissistic thought, but he'd seen the stack of fan content for him in comparison to the others.
Not only that, but Kyle was in the audience tonight.
It was the first time the location and date lined up for Kyle to see Stan perform and he couldn't waste it. Especially when he knew that Kyle would never do a thing like this again, it was too far out of his comfort zone, not his scene at all. Which Stan could sympathize with, Kyle had interests that Stan didn't align with. For example: family dinners. Though, Stan was skeptical of Kyle's enjoyment regarding those particular outings considering how few and far between they were. Stan hated them-- hated how passive Kyle's mom was, how "quirky"-- for lack of a better term-- his father was. But Stan sat through them, for Kyle. Now he couldn't waste Kyle's reciprocation of his efforts.
"I'm fine," he stated, hands gripping the couch. The air felt stale, an overall sense of fakeness clouding Stan's head, making this moment feel more remnant of a dream as opposed to reality.
The other three shared an uneasy look, obviously skeptical of Stan's current state. He was so obviously deteriorated, from the bags under his eyes that blended with old runny makeup to the shine of sweat that gleamed between strands of greasy hair that were plastered on his forehead.
"Fuckin- I'll pop a Tylenol and be fine," Stan grunted, pulling himself to his feet. They were running out of time to prepare, the stagehands hands already at work changing sets.
"Don't push yourself, man," Kenny steadied Stan by his shoulder, having noticed the way he swayed on his feet. Stan didn't want to admit how reliant he was on Kenny's support to stay upright through the headrush.
"Sure," Stan huffed, breaking away from Kenny as soon as his vision steadied enough for him to put faith in his ability to remain upright.
Kyle had already sat through the openers, Stan couldn't let this go to waste.
--
The Tylenol helped.
Or at least, Stan was actively trying to convince himself that it had.
Jimmy, Marjorine, and Kenny were already on stage, the lights off and music not yet playing. They weren't visible to the audience yet. As soon as Jimmy started playing, the stage would light up and Stan would be given two measures before he was expected to run on stage. Then another measure of hyping up the crown before he was to settle at a mic and sing.
Easy.
He'd done it so many times before he was positive the show could be performed in its entirety while he slept.
*BUM BUM*
There's Jimmy.
The audience roared to life as Marjorine and Kenny entered, music filling the stadium.
Stan closed his eyes, swallowing against the suffocating rise of nausea.
Now.
He ran onto stage, hands raised as screaming filled his ears. It wasn't horribly loud, he had the sound piece jammed in his ear to thank for that, but it was quite a lot. Definitely carried a stronger effect on him than any of the previous shows had.
Taking a deep breath, Stan walked up to the mic and suppressed everything else. All he had to do was sing.
"Blood red teeth above the evening sink..."
He gripped the mic stand as he continued the song, grounding himself in the cold metal. He was grateful for the softness of this song in its opening verses. The audience sang along with him, the words he had written having been committed to heart by hundreds. It was a pleasant feeling, definitely prideful.
Stan squinted his eyes, scanning the audience for Kyle. It was difficult to see-- the stage lights and the dull ache of his head combining to make the search a truly treacherous one. Besides, there were too many faces to look at-- too many chaotically dressed individuals.
The chorus was coming up, a guttural one.
Stan turned around, making brief eye contact with Marjorine who was presently singing a low melody. More of an instrument part than an actual vocal verse. Her face had concern plastered over it, as if she were moments away from dropping her guitar and rushing over to help Stan off-stage.
Turning back toward the crowd, Stan prepared himself to sing.
He engaged his diaphragm, and that was where it all went wrong.
The added tension was too much for his already uneasy stomach to handle. Pure sickness washed over his body, drenching his limbs with the sticky, oppressive feeling of nausea. Saliva, tangy and metallic, filled his mouth instead of words as he stumbled forward to clip the mic back onto the stand. The music continued to blare, building up for a chorus Stan was positive he wouldn't be able to sing. Not now, not while his stomach was actively forcing its way up his throat.
A collective gasp of concern rose from the audience as Stan's shoulder's bounced, his cheeks puffing out as the water he had used to wash down the Tylenol reappeared in his mouth with a far higher acidity.
He could hear Kenny's baseline falter, Marjorine's vocals and guitar stopping altogether.
Stan closed his eyes, unable to run, to escape the eyes boring into him. Everything spun in a horrifically bright and dizzying manner. He could feel hands grab either arm, lanky fingers that had to belong to Marjorine. They pulled him in a direction he could only guess led offstage. As soon as Stan's feet hit the floor on the first step, he lost the last meager semblance of control he had.
As silence fell among the audience, Stan hitched forward with a violent heave, vomit splattering onto the stage.
"Oh, Stan," Marjorine grimaced, moving her hands from his arms to his back as he retched.
It was the worst thing Stan had ever been subject to, the embarrassment of such a display being in front of so many people, the strong was of nausea that threatened to buckle his knees, the excruciating shine of stage lights.
"Give us a second, Carbondale," Kenny's voice reverberated. The drums and baseline continued on despite Stan's plight.
"C'mon honey," Marjorine comforted, she was always the most caring out of the group-- the one who helped others most when they weren't feeling well. It was actually her who staged Stan's intervention when his alcoholism began becoming detrimental to his health, "let's get off stage now, can you do that?"
Stan shook his head, immobile as dry heaves racked his frame.
A chant started in the audience as the people expressed their support for Stan at this low point of his. That was the funny thing about this genre-- how supportive everyone was in contrast to the extremity of the music.
Gasping for breath, Stan opened his eyes wide as the nausea abided enough for him to stand up straight without another gag sending him forward once more. Grunting, he wiped his hand across the back of his mouth, wincing at the putrid taste of bile stagnant in his mouth.
Ignoring Marjorine's protest, he stumbled back over to the mic, putting far more of his body weight than safe onto the stand.
"Sorry guys," he cleared his throat, listing side to side as the crowd roared, "fuckin'- feel like shit. I'm gonna..." he blinked slowly, trying to make his eyes go back into focus. At the moment there were two of everything, sliding around and refusing to connect, "just gonna," he could feel a tremor build in his calves the longer he stood, an expanding fogginess taking over his brain. He wanted to reassure everyone that he would be back on as soon as he got some water from backstage, but that seemed to be an impossible task for his revolting body.
"Water," he managed weakly before his eyes rolled back, sending his body crumpling to the ground.
--
"... such a dumbass! Who fucking-" a sound of extreme irritation, "goes on stage when they can't even stand straight? What the fuck was he thinking? And you guys too- why'd you let him go out?"
Stan slowly became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on the same couch as earlier, head propped on something. A lap, it seemed. Judging by the sound of the voice, the lap belonged to the speaker. Undeniably Kyle. His fingers were carding through Stan's hair with an edge of irritation, nearly tugging. But it hadn't yet crossed into the threshold of pain.
"Shh," Stan mumbled, turning to the side so that his cheek was squished on Kyle's thigh.
"Stan, are you insane?" Kyle questioned, his hand cupping Stan's soft cheek.
"Head hurts," Stan groaned, bringing his knees up to his chest and curling around his stomach.
"Well that'll fucking happen when you have a fever," Kyle clicked, "helluva show you put on tonight."
"Ugh," Stan turned, pressing his face into Kyle's jeans.
"Go easy on him," Kenny chimed in, pressing a bottle of water into Kyle's hands, "he did it for you."
"Well, I wish he didn't," Kyle retorted to Kenny's retreating back, "now sit up and drink some water, you oaf."
With hands that betrayed the worry he hid so expertly behind anger, Kyle sat Stan up. Immediately, Stan hunched forward, hugging his stomach tightly. A light whimper pressed its way past his lips as pain shot from his stomach.
"C'mon baby," Kyle made his voice softer, concern for his boyfriend trumping the frustration, "you're gonna get dehydrated."
The hand not holding the water massaged the base of Stan's neck, pinching circles.
"Stomach hurts," Stan groaned, leaning against Kyle's side.
Sighing, Kyle wrapped an arm around him, kissing the top of his head, "I know... Do you still feel sick?"
Stan nodded, his head against Kyle's chest.
"Water will help," Kyle pressed the bottle against Stan's cheek, "just a couple sips, can you do that?"
Eventually, Stan nodded, prompting Kyle to finally crack open the bottle.
With a steady hand, he held the opening of the bottle against Stan's chapped lips, keeping it still as Stan sipped.
"How do you feel now?" Kyle asked after Stan had drunk a good few sips. Kyle didn't want to push the limits of his stomach at this point.
"Better," Stan admitted.
"Do you want to drive home with me tonight?"
Crimson Dawn was touring, but their current location was close to where they were housed. It would be nice to take time to recover in the comfort of home rather than a bus. Kyle also wanted to be positive that Stan wouldn't be a dumbass and push himself past his limits while still sick. Besides, he was going to coerce Stan into coming home with him tonight regardless. It had been weeks since they'd seen each other.
"Too far," Stan grumbled, "I'll puke in the car."
"We can pull over," Kyle assured, brushing Stan's hair back, "or we have bags."
"Mmmn," Stan wrapped his arms around Kyle, nuzzling closer to him, "fine."
"I made some soup if you think you can handle it," Marjorine walked in, a small bowl in her hand. Suddenly the heavy, suspiciously can-shaped bag Marjorine had packed onto the bus made sense.
"Nnnn," Stan shivered, burying his nose in Kyle's shirt.
"Try to eat some, then we'll hit the road," Kyle instructed, "you need energy."
"You hate me," Stan moaned, refusing to leave Kyle's shirt.
"I love you, and I'm doing this because I love you."
"You sound like my parents."
Kyle rolled his eyes as Marjorine took a seat on Stan's other side, grabbing the spoon.
"It's really light," Marjorine offered, "your stomach probably hurts because it's empty."
"Listen to her," Kyle massaged Stan's scalp, trying to slowly nudge him upright.
"Fine," Stan turned toward Marjorine, who brought a spoonful of broth up to his mouth. Hesitantly, he wrapped his lips around it and swallowed.
It tasted good, canned soup always had its own special appeal. Even better, it didn't immediately churn his stomach.
"Might wanna stay off Twitter for a couple days," Marjorine recommended as she gave Stan another spoonful.
"Oh God, don't tell me-"
"It's not that bad," she backtracked, "I mean, there's only a few videos going around..."
"No one to blame but yourself," Kyle pointed out, nails running along Stan's back, "wanna change before we get in the car?"
Woefully, Stan nodded.
--
It had been a while since Stan felt so clean, Marjorine's makeup wipes having left his face free of all traces of his performer's facade. He was wearing a large t-shirt that hung loosely on his frame and a pair of basketball shorts. They were two of the very few articles of clothing that were actually clean and that's only because they were buried in Stan's bag.
"Ready?" Kyle asked, placing a hand on Stan's knee as he buckled himself in.
Stan nodded, leaning back against the seat. The car was cold, the air seeping into the fabric of Stan's clothes and sticking to his skin. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but the way the temperature contrasted the burn of sickness was a bit obtuse.
As soon as the vehicle came to life, the air began blowing against Stan's front, starting off cold but quickly heating up. Stan didn't like the smell of the car heater, it made the air feel thick and heavy-- as if it was settling in the bottoms of his lungs like pneumonia.
"Tell me if you need me to pull over," Kyle made sure to state as he began backing out, "you know where the bags are. Just try to sleep through the drive."
Humming an affirmative, Stan turned his head to face out the window. His body felt weak, zapped of all strength. The gentle shake of the vehicle was soothing though, which he could appreciate. Even if it did jostle his stomach a bit.
"Can you crack a window?" Stan asked, his voice quiet and breaking up.
"It's like 30 degrees out, are you sure?" They were on a main road now, Kyle glanced over at Stan with concern.
"Stuffy," Stan complained, shifting around in his seat.
Kyle hummed as he rolled down the front two windows a finger's width.
"Thanks, man," Stan breathed in the fresh air and worked toward falling asleep again.
"Of course, try and get some sleep."
Kyle thrummed his fingers on the wheel, the soft sound of music coming from the speakers. He kept it quiet for Stan's sake, but audible for both of their sakes. Without anything to listen to, Kyle would surely fall asleep at the wheel.
It was nearly a two-hour drive to get home and the sun had already set beyond the horizon. Kyle clung to the hope that it would be an uneventful drive, despite knowing that Stan was the worst sick person in the world. Not the worst as in he was bad at being sick, but the worst as in he was often inconveniently sick. Example number one: a few hours ago.
Kyle speculated that it must have something to do with his attention cravings, a subconscious programming in his body that set off illness in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not that it was a bad thing, well, it was a bad thing. But not Stan's fault. It was bad because it ended with situations like this where Stan had to avoid social media because of... Well, Kyle didn't know what they were doing to him on there, he just chose to take Marjorine's word for it. Probably memeing it though.
Rolling his shoulders back, Kyle turned the wheel. It was primarily one highway that connected the two locations, a very easy drive. Dark, and poorly lit, but easy. Most of it was straight too except for climbing the mountain.
That part specifically Kyle hoped Stan would sleep through. Curves would do nothing to help his already unsettled stomach.
Fortunately, that bit of the road wasn't until the final stretch leading into the town they lived. So for now, Kyle didn't have anything to worry about. Just the road and Stan sound asleep beside him.
It was relaxing.
--
As soon as the road faded into rougher, snow-plow-damaged asphalt, Stan awoke. Rotton luck, Kyle thought, since that was the beginning of the mountainous drive. Admittedly, it made sense given the stark change in driving quality.
"How'd you sleep?" Kyle asked, eyes briefly flashing toward his passenger.
Stan smacked his tongue, stretching out, "good," he managed past a yawn, "we almost there?"
"About twenty minutes," Kyle informed, "how's your stomach doing?"
"Fine," Stan shrugged, reaching forward to turn the music up.
"Drink some water."
Stan grabbed a bottle from the cup holder in the center console, twisting it open and sipping it. He very quickly frowned a bit and closed the bottle.
"Feeling alright?" Kyle pressed, squinting to make out Stan's face in the dim lighting.
Ignoring the question, Stan rolled his window down all the way and let the wind whip against his face.
"Need me to stop the car?" Kyle reached on hand over to rub Stan's back, trying to keep his focus on the road. It was a treacherous road, he really needed to keep is eyes on it.
"Maybe," Stan admitted, swallowing thickly.
Kyle nodded, he could remember seeing a few scenic pullouts on the way down. There had to be one coming up soon.
"Hang in there, baby," Kyle asked, returning his hand to the wheel and accelerating a bit.
He kept his eyes peeled, as the road stretched on. Around each bend he was sure to look ahead, scanning the shoulders for room to park. Stan seemed to be alright, at the very least he wasn't worse. The wind seemed to be helping. A few miles had passed before one came into view.
"Just a few more seconds now," Kyle promised, patting Stan on the back.
As had been claimed, a few seconds later Kyle pulled off the road, wheels crunching atop gravel. He cut the engine once the car was a few meters from the road, keeping the lights on. Unbuckling, he reached over to Stan who was resting his head on the door.
"Wanna stretch your legs?" Kyle offered, brushing his hair back. If the temperature of his forehead was anything to go by, he was still running a fever.
Tiredly, Stan shook his head no.
"Dizzy," he mumbled, sitting up from the door and instead flopping slowly in Kyle's direction.
"Think we can keep going?" Kyle asked after a moment of nothing exciting. As much as he wanted Stan to stay comfortable and not sick, getting home in a timely manner was near the top of his present priorities.
"Fine," Stan mumbled, moving so that he was hunched over his knees.
"Sit up, you'll make yourself sicker like that."
"I feel like shit either way," Stan groaned, sitting up nonetheless.
"I know, I'm sorry. We'll be home soon, okay?"
With a frown on his face, Stan nodded. Taking that as all the reassurance he needed, Kyle pulled back onto the main road. Stan was stiff, looking out the window with a tense look on his face. Kyle couldn't quell the swell of worry he felt for Stan and his current state. It really was an entirely unfortunate situation.
As the winding road continued, their car bending and turning seemingly ceaselessly, Stan grew visibly more disturbed. At some point, he had kicked off his shoes, now in a fetal position trying to stave off the nausea that fought for prevalence inside him. Even in the low lighting, Kyle could notice the sickly hue his face had taken on.
"Pull over," Stan begged after nearly ten minutes had passed.
"Shit- okay, let me find a place," Kyle wasn't sure how fruitful this endeavor would turn out to be. They were on the very edge of a steep drop, the other side of the road practically a wall leading to the mountain’s peak.
"Kyle-" Stan repeated, clasping his hands over his mouth.
"A bag, get a bag!" Kyle quickly instructed, motioning desperately to the glove compartment.
But Stan, in his dense-headed and, as had been claimed earlier, inconvenient-sick-person nature, made no move to the glove compartment, instead keeping both hands over his mouth. Kyle didn't know if this was because Stan couldn't hear him or if he just thought himself to be above throwing up in plastic bags. Or maybe he was intentionally being difficult.
"Kyyyyyyle," he whined, eyes gut-wrenchingly wide and sad, "I can't-" His stomach lurched, and Stan's knee-jerk reaction was to stick his head as far out the window as he could and vomit into the roaring wind.
Fighting the urge to shut his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose, Kyle reached a hand over and rubbed Stan's back as he continued to retch the rest of Marjorine's soup out the window. Kyle winced at the sound of it splattering against the side of the car. Car wash was definitely in order.
"There you go," Kyle comforted with exasperation, "let it out."
Eventually, Stan plopped back into his seat, properly drained. Tears dried on his cheeks, eyes dried out from the frigid night air. His right cheek was stained with sick from the wind blowing it.
"Get a napkin," Kyle opened the center console without looking, fumbling around for a napkin before passing it over to Stan.
"Sorry," Stan sniffed, taking ahold of the object and beginning to wipe his face.
"It's fine, you can't help it," Kyle heaved a sigh, doing what could only be described as the white person's smile since there are no other existing terms in the English language to describe that particular in-between expression.
"Sorry about the show," Stan clarified, "I- I really wanted you to see us perform."
"I'm sure there's gonna be a next time... Hopefully one where you're healthy," Kyle replied, "seriously, you scared the crap out of me when you collapsed up there. I mean- I didn't know what to think when you stumbled onto stage half-asleep. I was seriously scared."
"I know," Stan murmured, guilt keeping his voice small.
"I seriously care about you, okay? I'm glad I was there to bring you home."
"Me too."
"Never do that again, though. I'm serious."
Stan didn't give a verbal response, instead turning his head into the wind once more. It was understandable, Kyle himself was exhausted-- he couldn't even begin to understand how Stan felt.
The rest of the trip was blessedly uneventful, Stan's stomach seemingly empty, Kyle managed to coerce a few sips of water into him, but neither wanted a repeat of the window situation, so they didn't force it.
Relief washed over the car when they finally pulled into the driveway of their small house, successfully putting an end to the disastrous drive.
Kyle stepped out as soon as the car stopped, walking around the front of the car to help Stan. Fortunately, the handle managed to escape the splash zone. The back door... was another story that Kyle chose to keep his gaze adverted from. Gently, as to not startle Stan who had drifted back to sleep at some point during the quick drive, Kyle pulled open the door.
"C'mon, let's get you in bed," Kyle huffed, unbuckling Stan and helping him out.
As soon as he got to his feet, Stan leaned heavily against Kyle, absolutely unable to keep himself upright on his own. Kyle adjusted his hold on Stan to make sure neither of them fell over before pushing the door shut and making his way to the front door.
"You're a good driver," Stan mumbled as Kyle fumbled with the lock.
"Thanks," Kyle pushed open the door, helping Stan in. He was wearing his socks, shoes left in the car, so after Kyle kicked off his own shoes they made their way to the bedroom.
"I'm gonna get you something for your fever, don't go to sleep yet," Kyle narrated as he guided Stan onto their shared mattress.
"M'kay," Stan hummed, already making himself comfortable. It had been so long since he had been granted the privilege of sleeping in his own bed.
Kyle made haste of getting the medicine and a glass of water, returning to Stan's side in record time.
"Sit up for me, baby," he instructed, sitting down beside Stan and helping him up.
"'M tired," he grunted, sitting up.
"You can sleep after you take this, okay?"
"Okay."
Kyle placed the dose in Stan's mouth, quickly bringing up the cup of water to chase it.
"There you go, now sleep," Kyle planted a kiss on his forehead, smoothing his hair back.
In only a few minutes, after changing into something more comfortable and partaking in his nightly routine, Kyle would join Stan in bed. Hopefully, the most eventful part of Stan's sickness had passed and the rest of the weekend would be easy.
Well, as easy as it gets with Stan.