Upheaval

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Chester hated mornings. It was the only thing the disgruntled man was capable of thinking with his head against the cold, wet porcelain of the toilet bowl. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there – still naked – in a lump on the floor of the hotel bathroom, or how long he'd spent with his face dangerously close to actually being inside the toilet. A small, miserable moan escaped his lips when his stomach churned from the astringent smell of vomit that filled his nose. He had thrown up nothing but alcohol.

A small drop of saliva dripped off his lip onto the side of the toilet bowl. He was drooling. Chester was concentrating too hard on trying to make the nausea he felt die down to care much about anything else. Eyes closed, he took in a very slow rather shaky, breath the feeling of bile rising, threatening him again. Please, not again, was the only whimper of a thought he could manage. The back of his hand wiped at his eyes, which had been watering from the unrelenting force of his stomach trying to project itself out of his body through his mouth via his throat. His eyes shut again, the disgusting sight of what had just been inside of him pooling around in the toilet water; being it was one of the last things he wanted to see. It took a lot of effort, but he lifted his hand and fumbled to find the handle to flush it.

"Alright, alright last round," said a vague voice ringing in the back of his mind around the familiar image of last night's party meshing together in a blur of the night before. That voice had lied, it wasn't the last round, it was a devastatingly far cry from the last round, and the bar would be open for another two hours and the group of them drank until the very last possible minute. Chester groaned again, not wanting to think about anything related to alcohol, but the laughter from the previous night rattled around in his head from all the stupid screwing around that had seemed so funny at the time. Chester leaned back, away from the toilet, and wondered whether that was a good idea as he pulled his legs out from under him to sit on the cold tile floor. Back against the cabinet doors of the vanity, he closed his eyes again, wetness still leaking from the corners that were beginning to burn from the dry air. He tried hard to not think about what happened the night before, tried so hard not to think about the creeping feeling of guilt that started inside of him now that the nausea was starting to fade.

He could feel it now; it's all he could feel. The soreness he felt in some very specific places acted as a forced reminder of just how badly he had fucked up. He was sure he would have felt disgusted by it if he hadn't been so hung over. "You're so fucking hot, Chester." The lips against his neck and a traveling hand ghosted over his clammy skin. It forced him to move, sitting down was too uncomfortable. The toilet was what stabilized him as he clamored up from the floor with a strained grunt. He took the opportunity as his head was hovering over it once again to spit in it, a vain attempt to rid some of the taste of vomit from his mouth. One hand moving to rest against the wall behind the toilet to help keep him up, he bowed his head, feeling a little dizzy from standing. And there he stood, unmoving, until he felt like he could at least walk to the sink.

The lights above the mirror felt unnaturally bright to him as he turned towards the bathroom vanity. The sound of running water seemed just as loud as the lights were bright when he turned the cold water on in the sink. But the water felt cool, a welcoming sensation as he splashed it on his sticky, overheated face. The first sensation he's felt since waking that he's almost enjoyed. Hands cupped, he collected more water, rising his mouth of the foul taste of regurgitated alcohol. Too much to drink; far too much to drink.

Minutes passed and Chester's body was still hunched over the sink, his hands resting on its sides holding him up, not wanting to let go of anything that could kept keep him upright for the time being. He looked up into the mirror in front of him, surprised by what he saw, even through squinted eyes. His skin looked pasty and flushed, the force of throwing up bursting capillaries on his face, creating little pinkish red spots that dotted along his cheeks, with bloodshot, watery eyes that burned when he blinked, and a curious bruise that he couldn't quite remember on the right side of his forehead. He reached up and touched his thin lips, which were also bruised. He winced as he remembered the hard sloppy kisses that tasted like alcohol and cigarettes. The hand moved and rubbed over his face, forcing his eyes closed as he tried to will the nauseous feeling that was slowly rising up to go away again.

The night was spotty at best, but there was enough to know exactly what he had done. And even if he tried to not believe it, waking up with an obnoxious headache next to a warm body with the scent of stale sex hanging thickly in the air was there to confirm it. At first it had been mild distortion – the common kind he felt when he first woke up from nights like this, the chaos of these constant nights never giving his body a chance to get its bearings. But the closeness to another body and an embarrassing soreness turned that distortion into something he didn't really have the time to think about because his stomach had suddenly demanded all of his attention. Without throwing so much as a glance over to the body he had been next to, he stumbled his way to the bathroom, and hadn't moved since then, until he'd made it to the sink.

It was hard not to notice the light bruises, scratches, and teeth marks that could have only come from rough sex when his eyes were brave enough to look at his reflection again. It was even harder not to notice the numerous come spots dried to various parts of his body which made it more than obvious that it wasn't all his own. He vaguely recalled the suspicious dried stickiness he had felt in the corner of his mouth when he first woke up, something that he had quickly decided he was going to call saliva in spite of the hazy memories that suggested otherwise.

Thinking of the heavy breaths, shameless touches, and the moans that followed those touches made the muscles of his stomach tighten. The thoughts disgusted him. Or maybe it was the apparent evidence that he had clearly enjoyed it that disgusted him. Chester didn't care anymore. All he wanted was for the night to dissolve into nothing, and the nagging feeling that he had done something terribly wrong to go away. But he knew he couldn't do that. With one last, slow, deep breath Chester pushed himself away from the sink. He hesitated when his hand reached for the doorknob, not knowing if he was ready to deal with what was bound to happen. With forced effort, the knob turned in his hand but the door didn't budge, no matter how hard his mind tried to will the door to swing open, he couldn't do it.

The night wasn't all there, and he wished that none of it was so that he didn't have to confront it. The button lock on the doorknob pushed in with ease under the pressure of his thumb and gave a satisfying click before he allowed his hand to drop from the door. Both arms hanging limply at his sides Chester stared at the brass knob as if it held all the answers that his rattled brain sought. But it didn't; of course, it didn't. So Chester turned on his heels and took the last three steps towards the shower sheepishly. Avoidance wasn't something he was used to so he tried hard to ignore the mocking words that laced themselves throughout the throbbing of his head, and fuzziness of his thoughts.

And then he stepped under the hot spray falling from the showerhead, closing the shower curtain behind him. He groaned and ran a wet hand over his face. Because accidents didn't happen, Chester was forcing himself to forget, watching with silent dispassion as water swirled down the drain. There were no come spots he had to scrub away with the washcloth after he had lathered it with cheap soap, and those marks on his skin weren't really there. Because once he stepped out from the bathroom he could pretend that nothing ever happened last night, because if mistakes didn't happen, there was no way for Chester to make any.

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End
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