OOC: Hungover stories! The events of this story and what preceeded it are actually a bit older, I've just been too lazy to finish off and post it. >.>
As soon as Alex’s eyes opened, he was overcome with the urge to vomit.
He sat up and groaned, the world spinning about him in rapid circles. After a moment of attempting to regain his bearings, he became aware of the fact that it was morning. Sunlight filtered in through the curtain-covered window to his right, shining directly onto the covers of his bed and pleasantly warming his legs underneath the fabric. His eyes trailed away from the light and to his left where, to his utter non-surprise, there was an empty patch of blanket, looking as if it had been left in that state for a long while. That meant that Perlene had already left the house in the early morning, and that he was, for the time-being, alone, with Lydea remaining at his parents’ house.
Alex frowned and stood up, fighting the temptation to just give in to the nauseating dizziness and hurl bile right onto the floor. He stumbled past the bedframe, being careful to avoid the mess of cluttered wooden toys scattered at his feet, all from Lydea’s previous stay, and opened the door, whereupon he fell into an unsteady gait before reaching the dining table in the middle of the room.
It was tidy, luckily, with the shelves and cupboards practically untouched. The nearest jug of water was an arm’s reach away so he snatched it up with quick fingers and greedily took uneven gulps to soothe his awfully dry throat. There were still a few slices of bread as well – Penny must have left some for him to eat that morning. He made a mental note to go out and get her some flowers as thanks, once she was feeling less cross about the situation.
Penny. He remembered the disdainful look she gave him yesterday evening and suddenly felt the shame descend upon him like a heavy blanket. Barly’s beard, was he drunk back then. His sudden, unexpected confessions immediately came to mind. Oh, how drunk he was back then.
Alex recoiled at the memories. He had intended to tell Penny under more ideal circumstances but he was tired and sick of keeping secrets so he had let his tongue loosen and spill forth secrets he might have never revealed in normal situations – his Rohirrim ancestry, and the fact that he had lain with men in the past. The wide eyes he had received that night let him know how much he had blindsided his betrothed with the information.
And then, there were the damned rumours of his supposed secret fling with Bryn.
Such damned, damned rumours.
He honestly wished he could throttle a lamp-post by now. He was already dreading stepping outside to a new day filled with even newer accusations of infidelity and secret nights spent with “that silly Margaret and her daydreams”, and heaven knows the old crones of Combe loved gossiping over the youthful men and women with their promiscuous lifestyles and reckless hedonism. He himself, having built up a reputation as a charmer and eccentric young man, was the most prominent target for the more malevolent rumours involving various accounts of him supposedly philandering; A rumour which would have held up in days past, but one which was nowadays nothing but hearsay coming from muddled memories.
But he did conspicuously run off with a bottle of whisky and a somewhat sullen Margaret in tow, reckless abandon being his companion and foolishness the hand that guided him into drinking the entire damned thing by his lonesome once Margaret had given up. He scowled at the grime-coloured water and allowed snippets of last night to flood his mind, – nothing intimate, he was loyal to Penny, almost painfully so – remembering the discussion on all the rumour-mongering, Margaret giving up and passing out right away, and the crown jewel of it all: breaking the frog charm he had carved with Hwynne’s name on it and tossing it into the lake. He considered himself lucky not to have accidentally stabbed his own foot with his sword.
With the bread basket now empty, Alex stood up to dispose of the dinnerware scattered about the table. He could still see the plate from the previous morning, greased with streaks of molten butter, and two tankards of ale, both empty, lying on their side in front of a bucket filled with suds. A discoloured rag swam in the water in slow circles: He would need to replace said water and get a fresh pouch of powdered soap at the market later on.
Doing housework after actual mercantile trading had become second nature to him since he had begun living on his own six summers ago – it was only with the arrival of Lydea and Penny that housework had become more of a burden and a subsequent relief now that he and his beloved were sharing beds and responsibilities. It gave him a reasonable excuse to keep out of the public eye, and nowadays what with the entire Margaret fiasco and that – ugh – corpse lying around on the streets, he was glad, for once, to remain inside, hidden away from prying eyes and the dangers lurking around the corner.
Uncertainty had never gnawed at his mind more until now.
There was a soft splash as the first dish sank beneath the lightly dirt-coloured water, held down by his calloused palms. He allowed the metal to soak before carefully scrubbing the dirt off the plate with the wet rag, letting the circular motion of his hands ease his mind as the monotone repetition of the task granted him a way to distance himself from the terrible sights and sounds of last night.
