67: Hungover

Stephen blinked awake to a hand resting on his cheek. He expected Inho – it wasn’t. Connor was sprawled next to him, somehow taking up 75% of the bed despite being about five inches and 40lbs smaller than him. He plucked the sleeping youth’s hand off his face and crawled off the end of the bed to avoid waking him.

It was late morning, and he was still wearing the same rumpled clothes from the night before. Drunk-Stephen had just dumped Connor on the bed and crawled in to pass out as well. Today’s punishment was feeling like death. He dragged himself to the shower.

While Inho storming off was definitely the peak on the mountain of shit events that had happened the night before, it certainly hadn’t been the end of the journey. Neither shouting nor cajoling had persuaded Connor to unlock the bathroom door. And, when eventually the sounds of Connor’s sniffles had disappeared, Stephen had gotten legitimately worried that the kid would give himself alcohol poisoning.

Luckily, while he’d been panicking at the door, Blaire and Tavy had watched videos about picking locks. They got the door open with surprisingly little effort. Stephen had rushed in to find Connor sprawled unconscious on the bathmat with Your Mom perched contentedly on his ribs purring. Stephen scooped up the boy’s tiny limp form and carried him to the couch where Alanna checked him over.

“He’s just exhausted himself with the crying and drama,” She told them, “And, he’s drunk, obviously, but the bottle didn’t have that much missing, so you don’t need to worry.”

“Thank god,” Chris had added, “He took my Hibiki whiskey in there with him.”

Stephen looked at him incredulously.

“What?” Chris shrugged, “It’s discontinued.”

Stephen fumed at the memory.

The night hadn’t ended there either, Stephen had, for reasons he could no longer recall, insisted on going home, tossing a semi-conscious Connor onto his back in an unwieldy piggyback. Stephen stretched moodily while his coffee brewed. His hamstrings ached from those efforts, and his sweater was probably ruined from the tears and snot Connor had pressed into his shoulder along the way.

He heard a buzz from the bedroom and dashed over to grab his phone. Connor sat up groggily, “Uncle Stephy?” he said, rubbing a fist over one swollen eye and blinking like a toddler waking from an overlong nap. His straight black hair was pointing in all directions.

“Quiet, you,” Stephen instructed, crouching to scoop up his phone, praying it was Inho.

It wasn’t.

Connor’s face morphed into a glare and he flopped over and buried himself back into the duvet. Stephen sighed. How did he end up waking up to this grumpy brat instead of Inho? This was the worst trade ever.

“We need to talk.” He told the Connor-shaped bed lump.

A hand emerged from the sheets, middle finger up.

“Brat,” Stephen chided, grabbing a slim ankle where it protruded from the blankets and pulling hard. He dragged Connor squealing to the edge of the mattress, where he hunched, bedraggled and grouchy until Stephen spoke again, “I have coffee. Do you want some?

Connor was silent, and Stephen could almost see his thoughts while he pouted. Finally, a muffled and resentful, “Yes,” emerged.

“Alright. Go get showered. I’ll make another cup when you’re done.”

Stephen meandered back to the kitchen and sat down at the bar with a steaming mug, trying to draft a message to Inho that didn’t sound like begging for forgiveness. Or maybe it should. He wasn’t sure of the details that had upset Inho last night, and even their fight was a little foggy. He should try to figure things out with the others before getting into it again.

“Good morning,” he sent, then put his phone away rather than stress about the possibility of no reply.

After a few minutes, Connor emerged from the bathroom in fresh clothes, clean but moody. He slouched into a chair at the table behind the bar and stared holes into Stephen’s back.

“What, are you waiting for someone to take your order?” Stephen teased, “Come here.”

“You said you’d make it.”

“I lied. Get over here.” Stephen grabbed the bag of beans without turning around and started measuring and scoops into a little mill.

“What’s that? Why are you grinding it by hand, are you a pioneer?” Connor demanded, interested despite himself.

“It makes a more even grind. Here,” He handed the device to Connor, “You do it.” He pulled out a timer and an elaborate glass coffee pot and put in some filters. Then set the kettle to exactly 195 degrees.

Connor was struggling with the grinder, “Why do I have to do this, don’t they have machines for it?”

“Shhhhh,” Stephen hushed him, “Shut up and learn.” He took it from Connor’s hands and checked the grind before adding it to the pot, “Good job.”

Connor bit his lip.

Stephen poured a little water from the kettle over the grounds, “Can you set the timer for four minutes?”

“Yeah...can you stop doing that?”

“No.” Stephen kept pouring, “Doing what?”

Connor fiddled with the timer, then set it and put it down, “Telling me to shut up all the time.”

“Well if you listened the first time, I wouldn’t have to keep saying it would I?”

Connor’s face twitched and he hunched, folding his thin arms around himself. Stephen sighed.

“Alright, I’ll try to stop saying it. I’m sorry.”

Connor shrugged.

“And, I’m sorry for what I said last night too. I didn’t mean it,” Stephen stared at the coffee grounds, slowly pouring water in even pulses over the top. “I was lying when I said I’d throw you away. Inho was just so mad and I blurted out something stupid. I’m sorry.”

Connor chewed his lip some more, “Okay. I’m sorry I locked myself in the bathroom, and drank your friend’s whiskey, and bullied your boyfriend all night.”

“Wait, what?”

“Ah, I’m glad that’s off my conscience,” Connor beamed, “I’m gonna go poop while you finish that, okay? Try to get it done this week.”

Stephen rolled his eyes, but he was relieved. Connor sauntered out of the room, and when he walked, his posture was finally back to normal.