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Mick was holding him upright as they walked. He was wedged between one strong arm under his armpit, so tight it hurt, and Mick’s lean, unyielding body. His face was half-pulled into Mick’s neck, his jaw resting painfully on Mick’s shoulder. He was stumbling every other step, and, at one point, almost slipped out of Mick’s grasp all together. Before he could fall, though, another set of strong arms set him upright and gently pushed him back into Mick. If he didn’t feel like he would puke the second he opened his mouth, he would ask who it was. Jeff, maybe, or Stamper. Not Chris, surely…
He could feel Mick’s neck rumbling as he spoke. What was he saying? Was he talking to him? He tried his hardest to focus on Mick’s words, pressing himself closer to Mick, ignoring how he couldn’t feel his right arm anymore, as it was pinned between his own frail body and Mick’s much tougher one.
“You’re alright, bud, we just gotta get you home. We’re almost there, almost to the car. You’re okay, Zach, you’re all good…”
Zach groaned softly, feeling much more nauseous as he did. He tried to stop, digging his feet into the asphalt, but Mick just readjusted his grip, dragging Zach along, now. The hand holding him up from his armpit was hurting Zach more than ever. Mick grunted after a couple of moments, before he slowed down and turned his head to look over from where Zach was nestled into his neck. “Jeff, could you give me a hand?”
He was right, it had been Jeff that caught him earlier…
Zach desperately tried to stamp his nausea down, swallowing the surplus of spit he was producing. He gave another weak moan, trying to tell his friends, trying to get any sort of help. Neither Mick nor Jeff seemed to hear him. Mick’s grip loosened, while another pair of arms, the same ones that set him upright before, Jeff’s arms, searched for a good grip on Zach’s swaying, drunken body.
Finally, one arm went under Zach’s thighs, and another under his back. Zach was pulled off his feet and was suddenly lying on his back in the air, held up only by Jeff. The movement was so sudden, Zach felt for a moment that he was surely going to throw up all over himself and over Jeff, but, somehow, perhaps with some divine interference, managed to keep it underway.
Jeff was wearing a jacket, Zach noted, his eyes closed, as they had been the whole walk to the car (which, really, was a lot longer than he remembered it being…), for the sight of asphalt moving underneath him made him feel quesier, and telephone poles moving from in front of him to behind him made him anxious. So they were screwed shut. Yes, Jeff was wearing a jacket, one of those jackets that make the wearer feel warm but are cold on the outside from the chilly Pennsylvanian winter air. Zach’s left cheek was pressed tightly against the outside of this cold jacket. If he pressed even closer, he could feel the faint impression of warmth under the cold coat.
Zach, normally, didn’t drink. He was only twenty, so it wasn’t even legal for him to. And, if he were being honest with himself, he hated the taste of it, anyways. But he had been dragged out to some house party with his friends, and they were all so much cooler than him, so much older… Not to mention that before they left for the party, Stamper, in his somewhat cruel way, joked about Zach being the youngest, and therefore the lightest weight there, so he probably shouldn’t be drinking that night, anyways. Mick quickly interjected and told Zach not to listen to Stamper, but the damage had been done.
He found himself desperately trying to keep up with them, refilling his red solo cup any time Chris stood to refill his own (Chris, his best friend, who he knew would never shame him for not drinking, but who was, regardless, older than Zach by two to three years, and who Zach almost worshiped), or switching over to a stronger alcohol when Mick did, or doing shots with Stamper. He had been leaning into his stupid persona he put on around his friends, the one where he was much louder and extroverted than he really was, the one where he was funny and confident and way more willing to do stupid shit like drink more alcohol than he’s ever had in his entire life. The worst part was, it had been working, for a while.
He could recall Stamper patting his shoulder appreciatively after their first round of shots together, joking with Jeff that Zach was less of a lightweight than he looked (while this happened, Zach was trying to clear his throat of the bitter taste of alcohol stuck in the back of his throat). He remembered Chris coming up to him about halfway through the night, telling him that he didn’t have to drink anymore if he didn’t want to, saying he could take him home if he liked (Zach brushed him off with a swift, witty joke that eased Chris’s worries, but his head really had been getting light at that point, and, now, in Jeff’s arms, he was starting to wish he had taken Chris up on his offer). He still somewhat felt the aftertaste of joy from when Cory refilled his red solo cup with a stronger substance, claiming he could take it better than any of the others (Zach grinned from ear to ear, the way only someone who was nearing their limit for the night could, with half-shut eyes and teeth showing broadly). But, then, as he sat on a grimy couch, sandwiched comfortably between Chris and Mick, drunkenly entertaining the small group surrounding him (in which he was sure he saw Stamper’s giddy face beside Shad’s somewhat sadistic grin, and perhaps even a more concerned looking Jeff) he stopped speaking, his face paling.
Before he could embarrass himself in front of everyone by keeling over and vomiting himself to tears, Chris had rushed him into the bathroom, shouldering his way through the crowd. Zach remembers the sound of that very same group of people he had just been entertaining laughing at him. Not with him, as they had been before, but at him. Just thinking about the ringing laughter, Zach felt tears pricking behind his tightly-shut eyes.
Chris made sure Zach was safely over the toilet, and rubbed his back as he threw up violently. The door had been shut, Zach knew, as the bumping vibrations of music and the yelling of people almost as drunk as he was were muffled, but at one point, he became aware of Mick joining them in the bathroom, as a new red solo cup filled with water was placed next to Zach’s knee.
After he’d finished spilling out the contents of his stomach, Zach had laid his head against the toilet seat with a groan. “You okay, man?” asked Chris. There had been no humor in his voice. Zach felt his heart pound with appreciation, feeling safe in the comfort of his best friend beside him, despite the swimming in his vision and the swaying of his head.
“Uh huh,” murmured Zach. The hand on his back had moved up to massage his shoulders.
“Let’s get you home,” suggested Mick from behind him.
Zach grunted, pushing himself to sit up. Chris moved forward as if to catch him, but Zach waved him away with a sluggish movement of his hand. “No.”
“You just threw up half your body weight,” said Mick sternly. “We’re taking you home.”
He reached forward to pull Zach up, but suddenly Zach’s stomach was swirling again and he quickly pushed himself back over the toilet.
After another miserable minute or two of throwing up, Zach remembered how he slumped against the wall and promptly broke into tears—drunken tears. He was wailing and his nose was running almost immediately, while his vision was blurred and his mouth was watering. Before Chris or Mick could properly react, the bathroom door was opening again and Jeff walked in, car keys dangling in his hand. He had shut the door behind him then stopped short at the sight of Zach sobbing into his knees, arms pulled around his legs.
There had been a moment of silence, as Jeff practically radiated awkwardness, until—
“Hey,” whispered Chris, as he moved to sit beside Zach against the wall, “what’s wrong?”
Zach had stifled his cries to the best of his ability, hiccuping. “Just—Just wanted to—” He had blushed, then, like how a child blushes; from the tips of his ears to the top of his forehead to where his neck was covered by his shirt, shamefully. “Wanted to keep up.”
Mick sounded annoyed when he spoke next. In Zach’s drunken state, he assumed Mick was annoyed at him, and shrunk into himself some more. “Is this about what Stamper said earlier?”
Zach hadn’t answered, shame spreading another full flush throughout his face, and Chris looked up at Mick, saying, “What did Stamper say?” His voice was low so as not to disturb Zach’s tranquility—To Chris, no tears were a good sign.
“Made some shitty joke about Zach not being able to drink because he was so young or whatever,” grumbled Mick. He had looked at Jeff. “You wanna start the car?”
“No, I’m not leaving,” slurred Zach heatedly. Chris put a warm hand on his shoulder, though, and said, “You don’t want to go home and lie down? It’ll stop the nausea.” Zach had sunk into the hand and murmured his defeated assent.
Chris had grinned at his drunk friend, then looked up to the two older men. “What’s the plan, guys?”
Jeff handed Chris the car keys. “You run ahead and start the car. Mick and I will wrangle this one out of here.” He had tilted his head to Zach.
And that’s how Zach wound up in Jeff’s arms, being held bridal style, desperately trying not to vomit. He wondered if there even was anything left for him to puke up…Then he willed those thoughts away, as it was making him feel sicker.
Suddenly Zach was being set back down on his feet, much more gently than he was picked up. Still, his head ached, and he kept a tight fist on Jeff’s coat sleeve. “Let’s get you in the car,” he said. His voice was quiet, but commanding, and, to be honest, Zach found himself afraid of seriously angering Jeff, not just annoying him, so he clambered into the backseat of the warm car, where Chris was waiting.
“Okay,” announced Mick, as he got in the driver’s seat. “Zach, bud, you gonna be okay back there?”
Zach didn’t even try to reply. He leaned over until his cheek was resting on Chris’ shoulder and he closed his eyes.
“He’ll be okay,” mumbled Jeff in response to Mick, but he didn’t sound very convinced. Slowly, the car pulled out of the parallel park that took three and a half minutes to perfect on the way here, and they started their way back home.
Zach woke up slowly, with his eyes shut, still half-way in his dream. He pulled his blanket up closer to his face, nestling it under his chin. Weak sunlight made his eyes see a dark orange while he laid in bed. Eventually, he became conscious of the sound of his heater humming in the far corner of his room, and he opened his eyes.
A banana and an unopened plastic water bottle laid beside him on his pillow, with a note that said, “REFUEL!!!” The letters were written in thick black sharpie. Something about the handwriting made Zach feel like it had been written by Jeff. Groggily, he sat up and took the banana. He ate silently, his head pounding despite the lack of lights or sound in the whole house (which was rare here). He threw the empty banana peel onto his bedside table, uncaring, before opening the water bottle and taking a few careful sips, making sure his stomach could handle it.
After he had drunk the entire bottle, Zach placed it next to the banana and rubbed at his eyes, making a pitiful sound from the back of his throat that he was extremely grateful no one else had heard. He reached down into the blankets to get his phone out of his jeans, but found that his legs were bare. Slowly peeling the covers back, he found himself wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. He grunted and laid back down in bed, only to drift back off to sleep.
“Zach. Hey, man, wake up.”
A hand was on his bare shoulder, shaking him awake. Zach groaned as his head was jostled, causing him much unwanted pain. The hand moved away from him. “Zach.”
Zach squinted his eyes open. Chris was there, leaning down, only inches away from his friend’s pale face. He was smiling and holding out two little red-orange pills and another plastic water bottle. “Hey. Take these, it’ll help with your head.”
Zach did, barely conscious enough to even consider saying no. Chris moved to sit on the end of Zach’s bed and looked over at him. “It’s almost 5:00 PM. You wanna come downstairs and hang with everybody? Mick said he had a few healthy smoothie recipes that could cure a hangover.” He kept his voice low, but talked about Mick’s healthy smoothies with joking disdain.
“It hurts,” whispered Zach.
“I know, but laying in it doesn’t help much. Trust me, man, I know, I’m Irish,” chuckled Chris.
“How do you do this so often?” murmured Zach.
Chris smiled empathetically. “Practice, I guess. Or it’s just in my genetics, I dunno. Listen, you don’t have to drink anymore, and everyone is keeping it chill down there. We’re thinking of maybe ordering some pizza or Chinese, we haven’t decided yet.”
Zach didn’t answer, so Chris kept talking. “You should’ve seen the way Mick yelled at Stamper last night, after you were in bed. Stamper came home and he was all like, ‘Why’d you guys leave so early?’ and Mick immediately started ripping him a new one. Jeff and I were up here and had spent, like, half an hour trying to get you to sleep, and we were freaking out, thinking he was gonna wake you up. You slept through it, though. Stamper’s the one that gave you the banana, but Jeff added the note.”
Zach tried hiding back under the covers, but Chris just pulled the blanket back down. “Look, if you come downstairs, we can watch whatever World War II documentary you want. Everyone agreed already. And the meds will kick in soon, and you’ll be as good as new, so you’re basically getting a free ticket to subject us to boring history.”
Zach hesitated, then said, his voice scratchy, “Can you grab me my glasses?”
Chris grinned and grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, where the discarded banana and water bottle were gone.