"Milk? What, so I can grow up big and strong?" He leans forward, reaches for it. Then that little thought pops up in his head again, the one about how, if his hallucination goes in the store, and buys a thing, and gives it to Stan, and Stan drinks it-
It's a stupid little detail to get stuck on, out of all the details he could choose from, after everything. But it's just, it's just- "Look," he says, dropping the hand that'd been reaching out for the carton and curling it tight around his knee instead. "Look, it's nothing personal, I just, um-"
How do you tell a guy you don't think he's real? Or maybe that ain't it, maybe it's that you can't tell him that you do think- But Stan's high, okay, and probably in shock or some shit, and he's full of stupid ideas any day of the week anyway, not usually pants-shittingly terrifying ones but this is just- You don't, anyway, the point is that you don't tell him, not when that guy is Stanford Pines, standing there looking at you with your face, your face but better, talking to you in that voice that was maybe meant to be yours back before you fucked that up too, telling you in a voice that's your voice but better that he wants to have something you can't let him have because what if one, what if the other, what if the lady behind door number one and the tiger behind door number two are both ready to step right up and swallow him whole, how do you tell a guy lookin' at you like he's your brother that you don't want any of it, you don't want to know- What does he say? Stan's got to say somethin'. Something, maybe something that'll stop that face lookin' at him like that.
"I don't usually take shit anyway, you know? Not on my own, 'cause you know how when you start takin' people think you're hooked, and when they think you're hooked they think you're helpin' yourself to the merchandise, and that's not a good break for my wallet or my kneecaps, you know? But this, just this- I mean, I think I deserve a break, you know? Just, just for a few more hours."
He sighs, slumps against the inside of the car door, and breathes a couple quiet words to himself, tired, years worth of tired. "A few more hours. Just a few."
"Then I'll get up and I'll think, and I'll stand up on my own two feet and I'll do, I'll do whatever it is I need to do. I'll be alright. I'll get out of this. Just- I mean, it's not that I don't trust- I mean- I just need to make sure this don't get lost, okay?"
He curls his fingers tight around the pill and looks up, ducks his head to wipe a little bloody spit out of the corner of his mouth and then looks up, all hope. "So I can't let you have this, but if I take it I can drink your nerdy-ass milk an' we can keep drivin', just for a few more hours, and uh, maybe you could tell me a few more of those weird, depressing stories of yours and everything'll be alright for a while. A few hours. What do you say? That sound like a night out to remember or what, huh Sixer?"
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It's a stupid little detail to get stuck on, out of all the details he could choose from, after everything. But it's just, it's just- "Look," he says, dropping the hand that'd been reaching out for the carton and curling it tight around his knee instead. "Look, it's nothing personal, I just, um-"
How do you tell a guy you don't think he's real? Or maybe that ain't it, maybe it's that you can't tell him that you do think- But Stan's high, okay, and probably in shock or some shit, and he's full of stupid ideas any day of the week anyway, not usually pants-shittingly terrifying ones but this is just- You don't, anyway, the point is that you don't tell him, not when that guy is Stanford Pines, standing there looking at you with your face, your face but better, talking to you in that voice that was maybe meant to be yours back before you fucked that up too, telling you in a voice that's your voice but better that he wants to have something you can't let him have because what if one, what if the other, what if the lady behind door number one and the tiger behind door number two are both ready to step right up and swallow him whole, how do you tell a guy lookin' at you like he's your brother that you don't want any of it, you don't want to know- What does he say? Stan's got to say somethin'. Something, maybe something that'll stop that face lookin' at him like that.
"I don't usually take shit anyway, you know? Not on my own, 'cause you know how when you start takin' people think you're hooked, and when they think you're hooked they think you're helpin' yourself to the merchandise, and that's not a good break for my wallet or my kneecaps, you know? But this, just this- I mean, I think I deserve a break, you know? Just, just for a few more hours."
He sighs, slumps against the inside of the car door, and breathes a couple quiet words to himself, tired, years worth of tired. "A few more hours. Just a few."
"Then I'll get up and I'll think, and I'll stand up on my own two feet and I'll do, I'll do whatever it is I need to do. I'll be alright. I'll get out of this. Just- I mean, it's not that I don't trust- I mean- I just need to make sure this don't get lost, okay?"
He curls his fingers tight around the pill and looks up, ducks his head to wipe a little bloody spit out of the corner of his mouth and then looks up, all hope. "So I can't let you have this, but if I take it I can drink your nerdy-ass milk an' we can keep drivin', just for a few more hours, and uh, maybe you could tell me a few more of those weird, depressing stories of yours and everything'll be alright for a while. A few hours. What do you say? That sound like a night out to remember or what, huh Sixer?"