Beep! Beep! Beep! A groan, then Aiden’s hand comes down violently to smack the snooze button of the alarm clock next to his bed, only managing to slam it to the floor in a loud crashing noise. This shit had been going off for hours and he only had managed to hear it now. He grunts, barely opening one eye before a sunray sneaking in the slight opening between his curtains hits him square in the face, he tosses in bed, turns until his back faces the window. Thump, thump, thump. The headache drumming against his skull is strong, and he regrets ever opening that one pack of beers last night, because he ended up drinking the six beers it contained. And maybe, yes, he had indulged in a little smoke as well. His mouth is dry like a desert and he smacks his lips together, realizing he won’t be able to stay in bed to rot all day, not in this state. Fuck that shit.
His hand pats around into the sheets to find the shirt he somehow remembers discarding on the bed last night… Or was it last night? More like today at 3am. The timeline truly doesn’t matter to him. His fingertips finally come in contact with the soft fabric of his shirt, and he puts it on, forcing himself to sit up. His eyes drag around the floor until they land on his phone, abandoned on the carpet under a pair of shorts that he knows he has to wash… This and the basket full of dirty clothes he has yet to put in the washing machine. I’ll do that later. He takes a quick glance at his lockscreen, revealing a picture of him and Anon smiling, but most importantly, it’s 2pm and his notifications are flooded with messages and missed calls from them.
“Fuck…. Fuck!” He hauls himself to his feet, stumbling on the clothes strewn on the floor, almost losing his balance, and drags himself to his living room. There are empty beer bottles everywhere, even some crushed cans here and there. His eyes swipe across the room, landing on the dusty Bible stacked beneath magazines on a shelf, feeling his heart pinch before he pulls himself together. He needs to clean up, before Anon shows up, all worried because he didn’t answer their texts or calls. I’m such a pathetic boyfriend.
He manages to snatch a garbage bag from the kitchen, tossing the empty containers into it as quickly as he could, despite the headache begging for him to slow down. But then he hears it, the distinct clink of a key sinking into the lock of the front door, pivoting until the contraption is unlocked. Anon. He turns around just in time, staring like a deer caught in headlights as they step into the living room, his forehead creasing as shame floods his features. His hold on the bag loosens, letting it hit the floor and he can see the remains of the weed he smoked last night on the coffee table.
He can feel the rush of cold running down his spine. Is it guilt, or fear? He can’t pinpoint it but he knows he needs to speak first. Tell them something, try to reassure his angel or at least apologize for making them worry so much about his sorry ass. Say something, say something. But ultimately, his mouth drier than ever, he manages to utter nothing but a weak greeting. “…Hey baby…”