Stanley was indeed the King of Puke. He had only rubbed soothing circles into the others back while he heaved up all of this nights regrets into the trash. It was probably a weird sign how used to he was to the others puking. The amount of times Stanley had puked on people or about situations they had been in had just given him a vast catalog of knowledge on how to catch the early puke signs.
And well someone had to, right? Someone had to keep an eye on Stan and he was the most qualified and also there was the whole he kind of loved him and… that all wasn’t important right now in this moment.
Once Stan seems finished doing what he does best, he does take the basket away from his hands and the godawful swirling motion he had been doing with it. Most likely unintentional but drunks sway and it was not the best for the senses. Sitting it to the side he makes mental note to make sure to take that out later before it started to stink up the room with the rancid smell of alcohol and puke.
Returning to Stan’s side he soothes at him again as he approached his next words carefully once,” Well how does that make you feel?” He opts for the path of giving Stan the chance to talk out his own feelings when these situations arise. He did not want to seem insensitive like he didn’t know but in a way he didn’t know deep down how Stanley felt about these things, but it would also do the other good to hear the words out loud and to start to reach conclusions in his own way.
Well with support of course.
Kyle wasn’t going anywhere soon he wanted to be here for the other and help him along in this journey of self discovery and recovery.
Stan really wasn’t used to being comforting whilst he pukes his stomach out - so the gentle touches, soothing circles against his back were nice. It made the entire situation a lot more, just, nice. Even to the fogged situation that is currently his hell-zone of a mind.
There’s a pang of guilt that builds inside of him as Kyle moves the trash bin away. He knows it’s going to fucking stink - grody as hell and the sight just as much. He really doesn’t know why Kyle is even bothering here - why Kyle is still helping. Stan’s dealt with himself drunk before, he’s always survived - albeit with a few bumps, scratches, and bruises, but he lived.
He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, though.
Stan closes his eyes tight - scrunching his face while he thinks. He’d rather not think about it - he’s still queasy, and still incredibly hot and sweaty. At this point, he just wants to sleep.
He’s entered, as he calls it, Stage 3 Drunk Stan. The sleepy boy.
“Dude, ‘m not even 14 yet an’m actively gettin’ drunk.” He starts, words more sour than intended, “How’d’ya think I feel?” - there’s a lot more bite behind those words than intended, his hands coming up to his face, trying to swipe away some of the sweat he feels pooling under his fringe.
With the later stages of drunk Stan, the Stan that’s just thrown up, comes the bitterness of the situation. The Stan that can’t help his own cynicism, even more so than before with the affects of the alcohol.
He starts leaning towards Kyle, elbows coming down and resting against his own knees. “I mean, I mean...sorry. Sorry, man. Just, tired.”
There was really no other way to describe it. Stan was just tired.
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