“I’m fucking done with you!”

Aiden threw the front door open and stormed into the house, leaving Fowler outside to puke his guts all over the porch in misery.

With any luck, the mother fucker would choke on it all and pass out before Aiden had a chance to break his neck.

Resisting the urge, he ungracefully staggered into the living room and tossed his keys somewhere near an empty pizza box on the coffee table, suddenly feeling too hot in a place that felt too cold. He pulled off his hoodie with a groan and right away noticed the chill touching his bare arms.

He turned in a swayed step and saw an open window.

Irritation sank in like a hornet’s barb, and he crossed the room, slamming the glass shut hard enough to make the walls shiver and loud enough to known it clear he wasn’t happy. “And you left the god damn window open, asshole!”

There was a muffled answer, but Aiden was too drunk to comprehend whatever Fowler was saying—if anything at all.

He wobbled in place, the sudden outburst sending a wave of dizziness running through him like a river of cheap liquor. And he used the windowsill to steady himself, pressing his forehead against the cold glass with hope the room would eventually stop spinning. But it seemed relief would only come when he vomited out every single shot across whatever surface was easiest to clean in the morning.

Aiden closed his eyes with the night still lingering like a bad omen; the lyrics of music with too much throat and no melody, endless shots of hard liquor burning all the way down into an empty stomach, and the bitter-sweet smell of drugs being used and favored. There was arguing, broken glass, and the glare of police lights.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly.

And for a moment, everything stopped spinning.

Then, the ceiling creaked.

Aiden looked up.

“Babe!”

Fowler stumbled into the doorway, staring into the room with glassy eyes and catching strings of salvia with a dirty sleeve. His hat was about ready to fall off and revealed wisps of brown hair lying close to his injuries; an already-black eye and a busted lip still glossy with blood.

He took a few unsteady steps. “I said…I was s-sorry!”

“You almost got arrested, dumbfuck!” Aiden turned around, seeing his blurry boyfriend stripping off his jacket and trying his damnedest to stay standing. “Out of all the assholes in the whole fucking club, you decide to fuck with our designated driver’s boyfriend! I had to practically suck that cop’s dick to get you out of trouble! And it cost me fifty-fucking-dollars for a taxi ride home, which you’re fucking paying back!”

The rant came out differently than he intended, more slurred and uneven, so it was a mystery if Fowler heard anything Aiden said when he collapsed onto the couch, whining some half-ass response.

Annoyed, Aiden made a low noise and pinched the bridge of his nose. He walked past Fowler, avoiding the outstretched hand and headed upstairs.

The second floor was darker, quieter, and free of Fowler’s pathetic whimpering. Thankfully, the man didn’t pursue him, giving Aiden a chance to clear his head.

And to vomit his soul out.

Hurrying into the bathroom, Aiden dropped his face into the toilet, and everything came out in a hot stream until he couldn’t breathe.

An eternity later—or around fifteen minutes, he pulled his face from the porcelain seat and laid against it. Though his stomach was still turning, Aiden closed his eyes and believed it was possible to fall asleep right here, which would save him from having to find his way into the bedroom. And he laid there, contemplating his life decisions until a dark feeling fell over him like the shadow of someone walking past the door.

Footsteps.

Aiden jolted upright and looked over at the door with heavy eyes.

“Fowler?”

Silence.

“Fowler?” Again.

Silence.

Nothing but the pounding of his heart and the drumming in his temples.

After several still moments, he worked up the motivation to stand.

Cautiously, he peeked out of the bathroom, wondering if Fowler had made his way upstairs, but the hallway was empty, and everything was silent. 

Then a series of choking coughs followed by heavy gagging came from downstairs, and Aiden’s annoyance peaked when he realized Fowler probably vomited all over the couch. 

A sound of disgust escaped his lips, and Aiden left the bathroom after rinsing his mouth, making a slow journey to the bedroom where he stripped down to everything but his briefs. He fell face-first onto the bed, kicking off the comforter and snuggling into the pillow.

Downstairs he heard a loud bang and a clatter as if Fowler had fallen from the couch or even tripped into the coffee table. The thought made him snicker, and he closed his eyes, eventually drifting off to sleep.