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1:38 A.M.
It flashed bright red in LED lights on Scott’s alarm clock. Wallace left near 8, maybe 9, to, quote, ‘Get plastered.’ Scott couldn’t sleep, of course, and had been lying in bed, staring at a weird water stain he would have to complain about to Wallace. It looked a little like a duck, with a deformed beak. Or an amorphous blob, with a sort of duck-shaped body.
Scott rubbed his eyes, until everything went fuzzy and black. He wanted to do so many things. His skin crawled with restlessness, causing him to suddenly jerk up from his lethargic state, a jolt of energy rushing through his body; and subsequently falling back down onto his pillow when it left. He hated feeling like this. He tapped his leg, hit his arm, slapped his face, and generally tried to do everything in his power to somehow expel this need to get up and run up and down the walls. Maybe he just needed to do that. It should logistically be possible, right? With momentum and inertia and stuff. Inertia sounded sciency enough.
Thirst. An overwhelming wave of thirst manifested in the back of his throat. Scott turned his head, catching the light of the clock with his unfocused eyes.
1:46 A.M.
How did 10 minutes go by already? Wait no, not 10, 2…would be forty, plus 6..8. 8 minutes had gone by and it felt like 8 seconds. If Wallace was there, they probably would have already talked about, like, 5 different things by now. Somehow, by a sheer act of God, Scott slowly but surely made his way to the fridge. Getting up is always the hardest part, the forcing of the brain to actually move your muscles instead of just sitting there while you internally scream. Wallace called it some specific diagnosis, but Scott had nearly forgotten it as soon as he said it. He wished Wallace was actually here, if only to restate the curse he was under.
Trudging his way through the cold, dark living room (he may have forgotten to pay the electric bill again, but in his defense, what lease doesn’t have amenities included in rent? And plus, why didn't Wallace remind him? He knows he's awful with stuff like that.) his foot tripped over a flat object, kicking it a couple inches forward, causing his hands to instinctively jut out in preparation for a fall which never came. His bass. Scott almost never bothered to put it back in the case when he was done with practice, a habit which Wallace frequently lambasted him for. His argument was that the apartment was so small, it would be almost impossible to miss a bright red guitar. Oops. Well, it didn’t sound broken. And it wouldn’t be the first guitar he had to patch up with some good old, trusty duct tape.
He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with tap water (he had used up the last of the filtered water a couple hours ago and forgot to refill it), and swiftly downed it, staring off at nothing in particular. It helped, if only for a second. His lips were still chapped, his throat still hurt with the familiar leathery dryness it always had, his eyes still remained bleary. He wobbled slightly, trying to counterbalance the drowsiness he felt. Making small, apprehensive steps, being sure to avoid the instrument still lying on the floor, he eventually collapsed back onto the empty mattress.
2:02 A.M.
Scott just stared at the clock. It took a second for the numbers to even mean anything to him. He didn’t feel anxious, not physically at least, nor did he feel depressed or sad. But he still wanted to cry. He shifted his gaze away from the alarm, until it hit the water stain on his ceiling. There was really nothing to cry over. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t force his eyes to wet.
This wasn’t the first time Scott had stayed up late, far from it. Sneaking around his house in an attempt to not wake anyone during the early hours of the morning, grinding out homework whilst listening to cds gifted to him years prior, and, in his more recent years, talking endlessly with Wallace, while some movie or song whispered ever so slightly in the background, sitting together in the overwhelming dark with nothing but a single light to keep them company. His stomach burned as the memory slowly played in his mind.
“So when exactly are you planning to do this?”
“I dunno. Sometime, in the future, I guess. ‘Rents want to sell the house by next year, so unless I want all my stuff to be sold, I have to do it by at least then. And plus, Stacey is already joking about using my comic book collection as kindling in case we get another cold front again.”
“I’m sorry, run that statement by me again?’”
“Which part? The selling part or the burning part?”
”The part where you used the word ‘rents’ in everyday speech,” Wallace slouched comfortably in the arms of the arm chair, attempting to hide his smile behind the rim of the glass bottle.
“It’s a normal word.” Scott flipped through a couple more dvds. “It’s just slang.”
“How interesting the kids of today speak. Maybe I’m simply out of touch with this generation.”
“You’re only three years older than me. Can it with the ‘old soul’ talk.”
He couldn’t refrain himself from giggling, “‘Can it’ Scott, really? You wish for me to ‘can it’?”
“It’s slang! Okay? It’s slang,” He had stopped sorting the dvd cases a while ago, and he was now glaring at Wallace, still sitting criss crossed on the floor. “What’s so funny about slang?”
“Nothing!” He took a moment to pause and collect himself, trying to maintain his composure. “Nothing, it was just cute how you said it, that’s all.” Realizing his bottle was empty, he left to the kitchen to go grab another one, and with that, the conversation was momentarily over.
Scott turned back around, trying to remember how he was sorting through the cases. He picked one up with colorful dinosaurs on the cover, pretending to read the plot summary, when Wallace sat back down and struck up a new conversation topic, something infinitely more captivating than the action at hand. He threw the case behind the shelf, only God knows where, and sat up to join in with whatever he was talking about.
Scott’s head throbbed in pain, but yet he stayed perfectly still. His heartburn was a consistent reminder that he was still awake. If he choked on his own vomit later that night, he prayed that Wallace would be there to call 911. Of course, that was assuming he arrived home in the first place and wasn’t dead himself. When did he leave to go get blackout drunk anyways?
If he had struck out, then he would have come home hours ago. Scott would have heard the reassuring click and turn of the old key. Maybe when he was rewatching A New Hope for the umpteenth time, or when he was failing to beat Sonic 2, or perhaps when he was practicing for the gig in two weeks that Stephen Stills somehow managed. And Wallace would smile his stupid smile (the one he only has when he’s at the very least tipsy) and laugh without a care in the world. He would sit on the chair while Scott took the futon, sipping away on whatever alcoholic substance he could find, delving into the societal ramifications of Luke and Leah, or lightly mocking him as he crashed into another set of spikes, or simply just listening to him play on his crappy bass; bobbing in and out of sleep.
But he wasn’t there. Which means he didn’t strike out. Which means he’s over at some dude's house, probably having the time of his life, getting so drunk he may wind up on the other side of the world and not know how he got there, leaving him all alone to deal with his own crap by himself. His face grew warmer and warmer the deeper he went down the spiral. Scott wouldn’t blame him if he did decide to up and leave one day. When he realizes that he doesn’t want to keep playing therapist for the rest of his life to a dude he hung out with once in college. That his future doesn’t involve a whiny moocher who can’t even keep a steady job. Who can’t get over his girlfriend who broke up with him a year ago. Who forces his roommate to cut his hair for him because he’s irrationally scared of the barber shop. Who is probably the reason why he can’t keep a steady boyfriend, because who would want to date someone who devotes so much wasted time and energy on some guy.
His breathing was erratic now. Dried sweat stung his face; pooling down his neck, his wet eyes struggling to keep open.
Oh.
Scott finally figured out how to make himself cry.
Hooray.