He wasn't sure how much time passed after he stumbled into the empty bedroom and ended up draped over this chair. The endless noise of the party downstairs was thankfully muffled, but his head still ached and the nausea just wouldn't leave him. He thought for sure he would throw up every time he moved, but instead his stomach just churned endlessly.
He zoned out after awhile, running one finger along the embroidered seam of the much-abused chair, over and over. The motion was soothing, and the rough texture distracted him a little from the awful, unrelenting ache in his stomach. He half considered pulling his phone out and listening to some kind of ambient noise, something that would help block out the distant drone of music and too-loud conversations that filtered up from the party below. But every time he thought about moving, the nausea got worse, and it just seemed like too much effort. He stayed where he was, and in the end he fell into a sort of doze, drifting in and out of awareness.
Eventually, he became aware of a distant sound, hovering at the edge of his hearing. It sounded like... thumping. It sounded a little like someone boxing. Was the TV on? Was that it? Did he- did he fall asleep watching the game again? He was sleepy and disoriented and he couldn't quite remember where or when he is. Someone was shaking his shoulder.
“Matt. Matt. Hey, Matt!”
He frowned, and uncurled a little. That voice. He knew that voice. Who--?
“Matt. C'mon, buddy, wake up. You're really scaring me here.”
Oh, right. “Fog- Foggy--?” he murmured. He heard a sigh of relief like a gust of wind from somewhere high above him.
“Oh thank God,” Foggy said. “Matt, are you okay? I've been looking for you everywhere. I went back to that couch and you'd just disappeared. What happened?”
Matt moaned and slumped back to the floor. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Feel sick.”
“Yeah, you look like shit,” Foggy agreed. “You had me worried. I came in and you were just, like, passed out on the floor. You looked half-dead.”
“Nnnnnngh. Dead might feel better,” Matt mumbled.
“Yeah, I've had nights like that,” Foggy agreed. “C'mon, let's get you up and get you home. You can sleep it off there.”
Matt groaned in protest as Foggy pulled him up and slung one of Matt's arms over his shoulder. “Don't throw up on me, okay?” Foggy said.
“No promises,” Matt muttered, but he was feeling a little better. Maybe whatever it was was starting to wear off.
“If you're going to throw up on me, just give me a warning so I can drop you.”
“You're not gonna drop me.”
“I totally will, dude.”
“You won't,” Matt said, and he still felt miserable, but it wasn't quite so bad, anymore. Not with Foggy here.
“Hey,Foggy?” he said.
“Yeah, Matt?”
“Never-- never convince me to play beer pong again, okay?”
Re: [FILL]: "Never Again" 7/7 COMPLETE :)
He zoned out after awhile, running one finger along the embroidered seam of the much-abused chair, over and over. The motion was soothing, and the rough texture distracted him a little from the awful, unrelenting ache in his stomach. He half considered pulling his phone out and listening to some kind of ambient noise, something that would help block out the distant drone of music and too-loud conversations that filtered up from the party below. But every time he thought about moving, the nausea got worse, and it just seemed like too much effort. He stayed where he was, and in the end he fell into a sort of doze, drifting in and out of awareness.
Eventually, he became aware of a distant sound, hovering at the edge of his hearing. It sounded like... thumping. It sounded a little like someone boxing. Was the TV on? Was that it? Did he- did he fall asleep watching the game again? He was sleepy and disoriented and he couldn't quite remember where or when he is. Someone was shaking his shoulder.
“Matt. Matt. Hey, Matt!”
He frowned, and uncurled a little. That voice. He knew that voice. Who--?
“Matt. C'mon, buddy, wake up. You're really scaring me here.”
Oh, right. “Fog- Foggy--?” he murmured. He heard a sigh of relief like a gust of wind from somewhere high above him.
“Oh thank God,” Foggy said. “Matt, are you okay? I've been looking for you everywhere. I went back to that couch and you'd just disappeared. What happened?”
Matt moaned and slumped back to the floor. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Feel sick.”
“Yeah, you look like shit,” Foggy agreed. “You had me worried. I came in and you were just, like, passed out on the floor. You looked half-dead.”
“Nnnnnngh. Dead might feel better,” Matt mumbled.
“Yeah, I've had nights like that,” Foggy agreed. “C'mon, let's get you up and get you home. You can sleep it off there.”
Matt groaned in protest as Foggy pulled him up and slung one of Matt's arms over his shoulder. “Don't throw up on me, okay?” Foggy said.
“No promises,” Matt muttered, but he was feeling a little better. Maybe whatever it was was starting to wear off.
“If you're going to throw up on me, just give me a warning so I can drop you.”
“You're not gonna drop me.”
“I totally will, dude.”
“You won't,” Matt said, and he still felt miserable, but it wasn't quite so bad, anymore. Not with Foggy here.
“Hey,Foggy?” he said.
“Yeah, Matt?”
“Never-- never convince me to play beer pong again, okay?”
“Okay, Matt. You got it. Never again.”