Chapter Text
Stan woke up sharply with one thought on his mind: he was going to throw up. He climbed over the bodies on the bed, out, and ran to the toilet to hurl. Once he finished he turned to the door and out the corner of his eye saw all the bottles of alcohol under the sink. Six bottles were empty.
Vodka, a Fireball, three beer bottles, and a single wine bottle were all emptied and thrown aside, not so that they were broken, but the sentiment was the same. Stan knew from Kyle’s remarks when they were younger that, from all that alcohol, there was no way he was sober yet. He wouldn’t get a clean read for at least a day… and he still couldn’t remember what happened. Why the hell’d he drink so much? Why the hell was he still at home? He could’ve died for heaven’s sake! He shouldn’t even be the one hyperventilating in the bathroom, Kyle’s the one who always got worried about his drinking while Kenny helps fix Stan up.
He tried to stand up when a sharp pain hit him and he was shaken to the ground. ‘Couldn’t even stand enough to fall to his knees, what a joke. A chuckle escaped from his lips, and a laugh grew in its place. After a moment he couldn’t help himself but just sob and laugh at the stupidity of this situation. He kept getting scolded time and time again by Kyle for drinking, and now he couldn’t even care anymore. He couldn’t care to take him to a hospital, care to clean the bottles- no matter how much he should be dealing with them himself, they both knew he was a failing excuse of a recovering alcoholic- Kyle gave up on him. That was the truth of the matter, even though his throw up had chunks in it of food he clearly was given after drinking- since he clearly remembered not eating a thing the day before otherwise- that… that wasn’t going to fix anything. It was a nice thought, and he needed the food, but that doesn’t fix six bottles of alcohol. Kyle knew that. Kenny knew that. And, hell, Stan knew that.
After a while of trying to clear his mind to calm down, Stan realized the location of the pain, and it kick-started his tearful laughter all over again. Those fuckers, who he loves so dearly, didn’t take him to a hospital, no. They fucked him. They didn’t get rid of the bottles so Stan couldn’t even act on the urge, no. They fucked him and couldn’t even- he needed to take a bath. Now. He couldn’t take a shower right now and thinking about that too hard hurt. He needed to bathe himself and think about anything but the people he loved and that hurt more than anything.