"I'm such a fucking idiot, jesus fucking christ, fucking fuck fuck stupid fucking Dipshit stupid fucking indie record stores with their bullshit subliminal messages what the actual fuck goddam-" Thompson heard nothing but incoherent muttering and choking coughs as he crept down the stairs to Robbie's basement. Mrs. V called him after Robbie had determinedly refused to surface from his bedroom for 4 straight days, and the gang was starting to get worried anyhow.
"Uhhh, dude? Are you – oh, good lord!" Thompson stopped and gaped at the sight before him. He knew Robbie was going to be a wreck – everyone knew how into Wendy he was. He just didn't expect it to be this bad. Robbie's room was completely and utterly trashed – there were crumpled up papers coating every inch of the floor. Pictures of Wendy lay all over his bed, in various stages of wetness from what were presumably Robbie's tears. Beer cans and a few empty Schnapps bottles tumbled out of the trashcan, and dirty dishes encompassed what used to be Robbie's desk. Even worse than the disarray of the room, however, is Robbie himself. "Holy shit…" Thompson whispers, walking deeper into Robbie's mess. The skinny teenager sat on the floor, supported by the foot of his bed. His hair was greasy and unstyled for once, making it fall flat on his pointed face. Upon hearing Thompson crunching his way through his papers, Robbie looked up from the floor. His "eye paint for men" was smeared all over his eyelids and face, and the whites of his eyes were so bloodshot they looked pink. "Oh my god, Robbie. When was the last time you slept?" Thompson asked, shoving some papers aside to sit next to Robbie on the floor.
"I don't fuckhbging know. Who cares." Robbie slurred back, sliding farther down on the floor. "S'not like it matters anyway. I don't deserve sleep, man."
"Robbie, c'mon, don't say shit like that." Thompson slung an arm around Robbie's shoulders."This is gonna work itself out." Robbie reached up to push his hair off of his forehead, making his sleeve slide back. Thompson expects cuts – Robbie's had an issue with that since they were in like, sixth grade, but it's worse than that. "Robbie, holy shit! Are those fucking burns?!" Thompson exclaimed, grabbing Robbie's wrist.
"Fuck off, dude, I'm a big boy." Robbie snarked, trying to jerk his arm out of Thompson's grip. "Just get outta here. I wanna be alone."
"Dude, we've been friends forever, I'm not gonna leave you alone when you're like this. Get up, we're going to Lee's." Robbie shook his head and started to drunkenly crawl up onto his bed. "Nuh-uh, we're going, Robbie. This is bullshit." Robbie laid face down on the bed, refusing to move. Thompson, tired of trying to make Robbie function, scooped him up and threw him over his shoulder. "Let's go."